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]5 1 G H A P II Y 



OF 



THE LATE 



f9 



MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON 



BIOGRAPHY 



AND 



POETICAL REMAINS 



OF T1IJ3 LATE 



MARGARET MILLER aWIDSOX. 



BY WASHIMGTON.IRVIISG. 



rhou wert unfit to dwell wiiii clay. 

For sin loo pure, for onrth too bri^hl! 
And Death, who call'd tlice hnnce away, 

PJac'd on his brow a ?em of light ! 

Maroarf.t to her CistpR 



m :Mcto Htjftion, rcbfself. 

NEW YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY CLARK, AUSTIN & CO, 

205 BROADWAY. 

1852. 






Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in che year one thousand 
eight hundred and forty-one, by Washington Irvinci, in the Cleriv's 
Office of the District Court of the United Slates for the Southern 
District of New York 



i 



CONTENTS. 

Biography Page 17 

Remains 114 

A Tale, written at the age of fifteen 115 

Poetical Re3iains 131 

To my Mother 131 

Pride and Modesty 131 

Versification of the Twenty-third Psalm 133 

To Brother L , 134 

For Mamma 1 34 

To Mamma 134 

To a Flower 135 

Stanzas 136 

Essay on Nature 136 

Home 137 

The Majesty of God 137 

From the Forty-second Psalm 137 

Hymn of the Fire- Worshippers 133 

Enigma 139 

To a Little Cousin at Christmas 139 

On reading Childe Harold 140 

Invocation 140 

I * 13) 



xiv CONTENTS. 

Christmas Hymn 140 

Evening 141 

Enigma 141 

To the Deity 142 

To my Sister Lucrelia 143 

Prophecy 143 

Enigma 144 

Essay on the Sacred Writings 144 

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah 145 

Versification from Ossian 14fi 

To my dear Mamma 146 

On the Death of Mrs. F. H. Webb 147 

To the Evening Star 148 

To my Father 149 

On Nature 149 

To the Infidel 151 

On the Mind 152 

On the Hope of my Brother's Return 153 

To my Mother 154 

Boabdil el Chico's Farewell to Granada 155 

The Shunamite IGl 

Belshazzar's Feast 165 

To my Mother on Christmas Day 168 

On visiting the Panorama of Geneva 169 

The Funeral Bell 169 

Liaes on receiving a Blank-book from my Mother .... 170 

To Fancy 171 

Invocation to Spring 172 

From the One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Psalm 173 

Stanzas I73 

Letter to a Poetical Correspondent I74 



CONTExNTS. XV 

Slanzas 176 

Versification from Ossian 177 

To the Muse, after my Brother's Death 179 

Lines on hearing some Passages read from Mrs. Hemans' 

" Records of Woman," 180 

An Appeal for the BHnd 180 

The Smiles of Nature 183 

On a Rose received from Miss Sedgwick 185 

The Church-Going Bell 187 

Fragment 187 

Fragment 188 

On returning to Ballston 189 

Twilight 191 

On the Departure of a Brother 192 

Lines written after reading Accounts of the Death of 

Martyrs 193 

On reading Cowper's Poems 194 

Stanzas 1 95 

Fragment 196 

Imitation of a Scotch Ballad 196 

Ere Thou didst Form 197 

A Fragment 198 

Fragment of the Spectre Bridegroom 198 

Elegy upon Leo, an old House-Dog 202 

Morning 203 

Lines written after she herself began to fear that her ♦ 

disease was past remedy 203 

To my Old Home at Plattsburgh 205 

Fame 205 

On my Mother's Fiftieth Birthday 206 

The Storm hath Passed By , . 207 



xvi CONTENTS. 

Epitaph on a Young Robin 207 

To a Moonbeam 208 

Evening 209 

A Poetical Letter to Henrietta 211 

Lines on seeing some Fragments from the Tomb of 

Virgil 212 

A Short Sketch of the most important ideas contained in 

Cousin's "Introduction to the History of Philosophy." 213 

Brief Notes from Cousin's Philosophy 214 

Lenore 215 



BIOGRAPHY 



OP 



MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



The reading world has loxig set a cherishing value on the 
name of Lucretia Davidson, a lovely American girl, who, 
after giving early promise of rare poetic excellence, was 
snatched from existence in the seventeenth year of her age. 
An interesting biography of her by President Morse of the 
American Society of Arts, was published shortly after her 
death ; another has since appeared from the classic pen of 
Miss Sedgwick, and her name has derived additional celebrity 
in Great Britain from an able article by Robert Southey, 
inserted some years since in the London Quarterly Review. 

An intimate acquaintance in early life with some of the 
relatives of Miss Davidson had caused me, while in Europe, 
to read with great interest every thing concerning her ; when, 
therefore, in 1833, about a year after my return to the United 
States, I was told, while in New York, that Mrs. Davidson, 
the mother of the deceased, was in the city and desirous of 
consulting me about a new edition of her daughter's works, I 
lost no time in waiting upon her. Her appearance corresponded 
with the interesting idea given of her in her daughter's biog- 
raphy ; she was feeble and emaciated, and supported by 
pillows in an easy chair, but there were the llngerings of 
grace and beauty in her form and features, and her eye still 
gleamed with intelligence and sensibility. 

While conversing with her on the subject of her daughter's 
works, I observed a young girl, apparently not more than 
eleven years of age, moving quietly about her; occasionally 
arranging a pillow, and at the same time listening earnestly 
to our conversation. There was an intellectual beauty about 



18 MISS MARGx\RET DAVIDSON. 

this child that struck me ; and that was heightened by a 
blushing dithdence when Mrs. Davidson presented her to me 
as her daughter Margaret. Shortly afterwards, on her leaving 
the room, her mother, seeing that she had attracted my atten- 
tion, spoke of lier as having evinced the same early ])oelical 
talent that had distinguished her sister, and as evidence, 
showed me several copies of verses remarkable for such a 
child. On further inquiry I found that she had very nearly 
the same moral and physical constitution, and was prone to 
the same feverish excitement of the mind, and kindling of the 
imagination that had acted so powerfully on the fragile frame 
of her sister Lucretia. I cautioned the mother, therefore, 
against fostering her poetic vein, and advised such studies and 
pursuits aj would tend to strengthen her judgment, calm and 
regulate the sensibilities, and enlarge that common sense 
Vv'hich is the only safe foundation for all intellectual super- 
structure. 

I found Mrs. Davidson fully av.are of the importance of 
such a course of treatment, and disposed to pursue it, but 
saw at the same time that she would have difficulty to carry 
it into effect ; having to contend with the additional excitement 
produced in the mind of this sensitive little being by the 
example of her sister, and the intense enthusiasm she evinced 
concerning her. 

Tiiree years elapsed before I again saw the subject of this 
memoir. She was then residing with her mother at a rural 
retreat in the neighbourhood of New York. The interval 
that had elapsed had rapidly developed the powers of her 
mind, and heightened the loveliness of her person, but my 
apprehensions had been verified. The soul was wearing out 
the body. Preparations were making to take her on a tour 
for the benefit of her health, and her mother appeared to 
flatter herself that it might prove efficacious ; but when 1 
noticed the fragile delicacy of her form, tlie iiectic bloom of 
her cheek, and the almost unearthly lustre of her eye, I felt 
convinced that she was not long for this world ; in truth, she 
already appeared more spiritual than mortal. We parted, 
and I never saw her more. Within three years afterwards, 
a number of manuscripts were placed in my hands, as all 
that was left of her. Tiiey were accompanied by copious 
memoranda concerning her, furnished by her mother at my 
request. From these I have digested and arranged the fol- 
owing particulars, adopting in majiy places the original 



BIOGRAPHY. 10 

manuscript, without alteration. In fact, the narrative will he 
found almost as illustrative of the character of the mother as 
of the child ; they were singularly identified in taste, feelings, 
and pursuits ; tenderly entwined together by maternal and 
filial affection ; they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace 
and interest upon each other by this holy relationship, and, to 
my mind, it would be marring one of the most beautiful and 
nflecting groups in the history of modern literature, to sunder 
them. 

Margaret Miller Davidson, the youngest daughter of Dr. 
Oliver and Mrs. Margaret Davidson, was horn at the family 
residence on Lake Champlain, in the village of Plattsburgh, 
on the 26th of March, 1823. She evinced fragility of con- 
stitution from her very birth. Her sister Lucrctia, whose 
brief poetical career has been so celebrated in literary history, 
was her early and fond attendant, and some of her most popu- 
lar lays were composed with the infant sporting in her arms. 
She used to gaze upon her little sister with intense delight, 
and, remarking the uncommon brightness and beauty of her 
eyes, would exclaim, "She must, she will be a poet!" The 
exclamation was natural enough in an enthusiastic girl who 
regarded every thing through the medium of her ruling pas- 
sion ; but it was treasured up by her mother, and considered 
almost prophetic. Lucretia did not live to see her prediction 
verified. Her brief sojourn upon earth was over before Mar- 
garet was quite two years and a half old; yet to use her 
mother's fond expressions, " On ascending to the skies, it 
seemed as if her poetic mantle fell like a robe of light on her 
infant sister." 

Margaret, iVom the first dawnings of intellect, gave evidence 
of being no common child : her ideas and expressions were 
not like those of other children, and often startled by their 
precocity. Her sister's death had made a strong impression 
on her, and, though so extremely young, she already under- 
stood and appreciated Lucretia's character. An evidence of 
this, and of the singular precocity of thought and expression 
just noticed, occurred but a few months afterwards. As 
Mrs. Davidson was seated, at twilight, conversing with a 
female friend, Margaret entered the room with a light elastic 
step, for which she v.'as remarked. 

"That child never walks," said the lady; then turning to 
her, " Margaret, where are you flying now?" said she. 



20 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" To heaven !" replied she, pointing up with her finger 
" to meet my sister Lucretia, when I get my new wings." 
" Your new wings ! When will you get them ?" 
" Oh soon, very soon ; and then I shall fly !" 
" She loved," says her mother, " to sit hour after hour on 
a cushion at my feet, her little arms resting upon my lap, and 
her full dark eyes fixed upon mine, listening to anecdotes of 
her sister's life and details of the events which preceded her 
death, often exclaiming, while her face beamed with mingled 
emotions, ' Oh mamma, I will try to fill her place ! Oh teach 
me to be like her !' " 

Much of Mrs. Davidson's time was now devoted to her 
daily instruction ; noticing, however, her lively sensibility, the 
rapid developement of her mind, and her eagerness for know- 
ledge, her lessons were entirely oral, for she feared for the 
present to teach her to read, lest by too early and severe 
application, she should injure her delicate frame. She had 
nearly attained her fourth year before she was taught to spell. 
Ill health then obliged Mrs. Davidson, for the space of a year, 
to entrust her tuition to a lady in Canada, a valued friend, 
who had other young girls under her care. When she re- 
turned home she could read fluently, and had commenced 
lessons in writing. It was now decided that she should not 
be placed in any public seminary, but that her education 
should be conducted by her mother. The task was rendered 
delightful by the docility of the pupil ; by her afi^ectionate 
feelings, and quick kindling sensibilities. This maternal in- 
struction, while it kept her apart from the world, and fostered 
a singular purity and innocence of thought, contributed greatly 
to enhance her imaginative powers, for the mother partook 
largely of the poetical temperament of the child ; it was, in 
fact, one poetical spirit ministering to another. 

Among the earliest indications of the poetical character in 
this child were her perceptions of the beauty of natural 
scenery. Her home was in a picturesque neighbourhood, 
calculated to awaken and foster such perceptions. The fol- 
lowing description of it is taken from one of her own writings : 
"There stood on the banks of the Saranac a small neat cot- 
tage, which peeped forth from the surrounding foliage, the 
image of rural quiet and contentment. An old-fashioned 
oiazza extended along the front, shaded with vines and honey 
suckles ; the turf on the bank of the river was of the richest 
and brightest cnierald ; and the wild rose and sweet briar, 



BIOGRAPHY. iil 

which twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with 
more delicate freshness and perfume wiihin the bounds of this 
earthly paradise. The scenery around was wildly yet beau- 
tifully romantic; the clear blue river glancing and sparldinnr 
at its feet, seemed only as a preparation for another and more 
magnificent view, when the stream, gliding on to the west, 
was buried in the broad white bosom of Champlain, which 
stretched back wave after wave in the distance, until lost in 
faint blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian mountains, 
seeming more lovely from their indistinctness." 

Such were the natural scenes which presented themselves 
to her dawning perceptions, and she is said to have evinced 
from her earliest childhood, a remarkable sensibility to their 
charms. A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower, would fill her 
with delight ; she would note with surprising discrimination 
the various effects of the weather upon the surrounding land- 
scape ; the mountains wrapped in clouds; the torrents roarino' 
down their sides in times of tempest; the " bright warm sun- 
shine," the "cooling showers," the "pale cold moon," for 
such was already her poetical phraseology. A bright starlight 
night, also, would seem to awaken a mysterious rapture in 
her infant bosom, and one of her early expressions in speaking 
of the stars was, that they "shone like the eyes of angels." 

One of the most beautiful parts of the maternal instruction 
was in guiding these kindling perceptions from nature up to 
nature's God. 

" I cannot say," observes her mother, " at what age her 
religious impressions were imbibed. They seemed to be inter- 
woven with her existence. From the very first exercise of 
reason she evinced strong devotional feelings, and although 
she loved play, she would at any time prefer seating herself 
beside me, and, with every faculty absorbed in the subject; 
listen while I attempted to recount the wonders of Providence, 
and point out the wisdom and benevolence of God, as mani- 
fested in the works of creation. Her young heart would swell 
with rapture, and the tear would tremble ir. her eye, when I 
explained to her, that he who clothed the trees with verdure, 
and gave the rose its bloom, had also created her with capaci- 
ties to enjoy their beauties : that the same power which clothed 
the mountains with sublimity, made her happiness his daily 
care. Thus a sentiment of gratitude and affection towards 
the Creator entered into all her emotions of delight at the 
wonders and beauties of creation." 



22 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

There is nothing nnore truly poetical than religion when 
properly inculcated, and it will be found that this early piety, 
thus amiably instilled, had the happiest effect upon her through- 
out life ; elevating and ennobling her genius ; lifting her above 
every thing gross and sordid ; attuning her thoughts to pure 
and lofty themes; heightening rather than impairing her en- 
joyments, and at all times giving an ethereal lightness to her 
spirit. To use her mother's words, " she was like a bird on 
the wing, her fairy form scarcely seemed to touch the earth 
as she passed." She was at times in a kind of ecstasy from 
the excitement of her imagination and the exuberance of her 
pleasurable sensations. In such moods every object of natural 
beauty inspired a degree of rapture, always mingled with a 
feeling of gratitude to the Being " who had made so many 
beautiful things for her." In. such moods too her little heart 
would overflow with love to all around ; indeed, adds her 
mother, to love and be beloved was necessary to her existence. 
Private prayer became a habit with her at a very early age ; 
it was almost a spontaneous expression of her feelings, the 
breathings of an affectionate and delighted heart. 

" By the time she was six years old," says Mrs. Davidson, 
" her language assumed an elevated tone, and her mind seemed 
filled with poetic nnagery, blended with veins of religious 
thought. At this period I was chiefly confined to my r/)om 
by debility. She was my companion and friend, and, as the 
greater part of my time was devoted to her instruction, she 
advanced rapidly in her studies. She read not only well, but 
elegantly. Her love of reading amounted almost to a passion, 
and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with 
astonishment a child little more than six years old reading 
Vv'ith enthusiastic delight Thomson's Seasons, the Pleasures 
of Hope, Cov/per's Task, the writings of Milton, Byron, and 
Scott, and marking, with taste and discrimination, the pas- 
sages which struck her. The sacred writings were her daily 
studies; with her little Bible on her lap, she usually seated 
herself near me, and there read a chapter from the holy 
volume. This was a duty which she was taught not to per- 
form lightly, and we have frequently spent two hours in read- 
ing and remarking upon the contents of a chapter." 

A tendency to " lisp in numbers," v/as observed in hor 
about this time. She frequently made little impromptus in 
rhyme, without seeming to be conscious that there was any 
hing peculiar in the habit. On one occasion, while standi. .g 



BIOGRx\PHY. 23 

by a window at which her mother was seated, and looking 
out upon a lovely landscape, she exclaimed — 

" See those lofty, those grand trees ; 
Their high tops waving in the breeze ; 
They cast their shadows on the ground. 
And spread their fragrance all around." 

UuY mother, who had several limes been struck by little 
rhyming ejaculations of the kind, now handed lier writing 
implements, and requested her to write down what she had 
just uttered. She appeared surprised at the request, but 
complied ; writing it down as if it had been prose, without 
arranging it in a stanza, or commencing the lines with 
capitals ; not seeming aware that she had rhymed. The 
notice attracted to this impromptu, however, liad its effect, 
whether for good or for evil. From that time she wrote some 
scraps of poetry, or rather rhyme, every day, which would 
be treasured up with delight by her mother, who v/atched with 
trembling, yet almost fascinated anxiety, these premature 
blossomings of poetic fancy. 

On another occasion, towards sunset, as Mrs. Davidson 
was seated by the window of her bed-room, little Margaret 
ran in, greatly excited, exclaiming that there was an awful 
thundergust rising, and that the clouds were black as midnight. 

" I gently drew her to my bosom," says M^. Davidson, 
"and after 1 had soothed her agitation, she seated herself at 
my feet, laid her head in my lap, and gazed at the rising 
storm. As the thunder rolled, she clung closer to my knecj, 
and when the tempest burst in all its fury, I felt her tremble. 
I passed my arms round her, but soon found it was not fcar 
that agitated her. Her eyes kindled as she watched the war- 
ring elements, until, extending her hand, she exclaimed, 

" The lightning plays along the sky, 
The thunder rolls and bursts from high ! 
Jehovah's voice amid the storm 
I heard — mcihinks I see his form, 
As riding on the clouds of even, 
He spreads his glory o'er the heaven. 

This likewise her mother made her write down at the 
instant; thus giving additional impulse to this growing inclina- 
tion. 

I shall select one more instance of this early facility at 
numbers, especially as it involves a case of conscience, credit- 
able to her early powers of self-examination. She had been 



24 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

reproved by her mother for some trifling act of disobedience 
but aggravated her fault by attempting to justify it; she was 
thereiore, banished to her bed-room until she should become 
sensible of lier error. Two hours elapsed, without her evincing 
any disposition to yield : on the contrary, she persisted in 
vindicating her conduct, and accused her mother of injustice. 

Mrs. Davidson mildly reasoned with her; entreated her to 
examine the spirit by which she was actuated ; placed before 
her the example of our Saviour in submitting to tho will of 
his parents; and, exhorting her to pray to God to assist her, 
and to give her meekness and humility, left her again to her 
reflections. 

"An hour or two afterwards," says Mrs. Davidson, " she 
desired I would admit her. I sent word that, when she was 
in a proper frame of mind I. would be glad to see her. The 
little creature came in, bathed in tears, threw her arms round 
my neck, and sobbing violently, put into my hands the fol- 
lowing verses : 

" Forgiven by my Saviour dear, 
For all the wrongs I've done, 
What other wish could I have here? 
Alas there yet is one. 

1 know my God has pardon'd me, 

I know he loves me still; 

I wish forgiven I may be, 

• By her 1 Ve used so ill. 

Good resolutions I have made, 

And thought I loved my Lord ; 
But ah I I trusted in myself. 

And broke my foolish word. 

But give me strength, oh Lord, to trust 

For help alone in thee ; 
Thou know'st my inmost feelings best, 

Oh teach me to obey." 

We have spoken of the buoyancy of Margaret's feelings, 
and the vivid pleasiu'e she received from external objects ; she 
entered, however, but little into the amusements of tho lew 
children with whom she associated, nor did she take much 
delight in their society ; she was conscious of a difference 
between them and herself, but scarce knew in what it con- 
sisted. Their sports seemed to divert for a while, but soon 
wearied her, and she would fly to a book, or seek the con- 
versation of persons of maturer age and mind. Her highest 
pleasures were intellectual. She seemed to live in a world 
of her own creation, surrounded by the images of iier own 



BIOGRAPHY. 25 

fancy. Her own childish amusements had originality and 
freshness, and called into action the mental powers, so as to 
render them interesting to persons of all ages. If at play 
with her little dog or kitten, she would carry on imaginary 
dialogues between them ; always ingenious, and sometimes 
even brilliant. If her doll happened to be the plaything of 
the moment, it was invested with a character exhibiting know- 
ledge of history, and all the powers of memory which a child 
can be supposed to exercise. Whether it was Mary Queen 
of Scots, or her rival, Elizabeth, or the simple cottage maiden, 
each character was maintained with propriety. In telling 
stories, (an amusement all children are fond of,) hers were 
always original, and of a kind calculated to elevate the minds 
of the children present, giving them exalted views of truth, 
honour, and integrity ; and the sacrifice of all selfish feelings 
to the happiness of others was illustrated in the heroine of 
her story. 

This talent for extemporaneous story-telling increased with 
exercise, until she would carry on a narrative for hours toge- 
ther ; and in nothing was the precocity of her inventive powers 
more apparent than in the discrimination and individuality of 
her fictitious characters ; the consistency with which they 
were sustained ; the graphic force of her descriptions ; the 
elevation of her sentiments, and the poetic beauty of her 
imagery. * 

This early gift caused her to be sought by some of the 
neighbours ; who would lead her unconsciously into an exer- 
tion of her powers. Nothing was done by her from vanity 
or a disposition to " show off," but she would become excited 
by their attention and the pleasure they seemed to derive from 
her narration. When thus excited, a whole evening would 
be occupied by one of her stories ; and when the servant came 
to take her home, she would observe, in the phraseology of 
the magazines, " the story to be continued in our next." 

Between the age of six and seven she entered upon a course 
of English grammar, geography, history, and rhetoric, still 
under the direction and superintendence of her mother ; but 
such was her ardour and application, that it was necessary to 
keep her in check, lest a too intense pursuit of knowledge 
should impair her delicate constitution. She was not required 
to commit her lessons to memory, but to give the substance 
of them in her own language, and to explain their purport ; 
•hus she learnt nothing by rote, but every thing understand- 
2* 



26 ]\1ISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

ingly, and soon acquired a knowledge of the rudiments of 
English education. The morning lessons completed, the rest 
of the day was devoted to recreation ; occasionally sporting 
and gathering wild flowers on the banks of the Saranac ; 
though the extreme delicacy of her constitution prevented her 
taking as much exercise as her mother could have wished. 

In 1830 an English gentleman, who had been strongl}^ in- 
terested and affected by the perusal of the biography and 
writings of Lucretia Davidson, visited Plattsburgh, in the 
course of a journey from Quebec to New York, to see the 
place w^here she was born and had been buried. While there, 
he sought an interview with Mrs. Davidson, and his appear- 
ance and deportment were such as at once to inspire respect 
and confidence. He had much to ask about the object of his 
literary pilgrimage, but his inquiries were managed with the 
most considerate delicacy. While he was thus conversing 
with Mrs. Davidson, the little Margaret, then about seven 
years of age, came tripping into the room, with a book in 
one hand and a pencil in the other. He was charmed with 
her bright intellectual countenance, but still more with finding 
that the volume in her hand was a copy of Thomson's Sea- 
sons, in which she had been marking with a pencil the pas- 
sages wiiich most pleased her. He drew her to him; his 
frank, winning manner soon banished her timidity; he en- 
gaged her in conversation, and found, to his astonishment, a 
counterpart of Lucretia Davidson before him. His visit was 
necessarily brief; but his manners, appearance, and conver- 
sation, and, above all, the extraordinary interest with which 
he had regarded her, sank deep in the affectionate heart of 
the child, and inspired a friendship that remained one of her 
strongest attachments through the residue of her transient 
existence. 

The delicate state of her health this summer rendered it 
advisable to take her to the Saratoga Springs, the waters of 
which appeared to have a beneficial efl^ect. After remaining 
here some time, she accompanied her parents to New Yorkt 
It was her first visit to the city, and of course, fruitful of 
wonder and excitement ; a new world seemed to open tefore 
her; new scenes, new friends, new occupations, new sources 
of instruction and enjoyment; her young heart was overflow- 
mg, and her head giddy with delight. To complete her hap- 
piness, she again met with her English friend, whom she 
greeted with as much eagerness and ^oy as if he had been a 



BIOGRAPHY. 27 

companion of her own age. He manifested the same interest 
in her that he had shown at Plattsburgh, and took great plea- 
sure in accom.panying her to many of the exhibitions and 
places of intellectual gratification of the metropolis, and mark- 
ing their eflects upon her fresh, unhackneyed feelings and 
intelligent mind. In company with him, she, for the first and 
only time in her life, visited the theatre. It was a scene of 
magic to her, or rather, as she said, like a " brilliant dream." 
She often recurred to it with vivid recollection, and the effect 
of it upon her imagination was subsequently apparent in the 
dramatic nature of some of her writings. 

One of her greatest subjects of regret on leaving New 
York, was the parting with her intellectual English friend ; 
but she was consoled by his promising to pay Plattsburgh 
another visit, and to pass a few days there previous to his 
departure for England. Soon after returning to Plattsburgh, 
however, Mrs. Davidson received a letter from him saying 
that he was unexpectedly summoned home, and would have 
to defer his promised visit until his return to the United States. 

It was a severe disappointment to Margaret, who had con- 
ceived for him an enthusiastic friendshipi remarkable in such 
a child. His letter was accompanied by presents of books 
and various tasteful remembrances, but the sight of them 
only augmented her affliction. She wrapped them all care- 
fully in paper, and treasured them up in a particular drawer, 
where they were daily visited, and many a tear shed over 
them. 

The excursions to Saratoga and New York had improved 
her health, and given a fresh impulse to her mind. She re- 
sumed her studies with great eagerness ;' her spirits rose with 
mental exercise ; she soon was in one of her veins of intel- 
lectual excitement. She read, she wrote, she danced, she 
sang, and was for the time the happiest of the happy. In the 
freshness of early morning, and towards sunset, when the 
heat of the day was over, she would stroll on the banks of 
the Saranac, following its course to where it pours itself into 
the beautiful Bay of Cumberland in Lake Champlain. There 
the rich variety of scenery which bursts upon the eye ; the 
islands, scattered, like so many gems, on the broad bosom of 
the lake; the Green Mountains of Vermont beyond, clothed 
in the atmospherical charms of our magnificent climate; all 
these would inspire a degree of poetic rapture in her mmd 
mingled with a sacred melancholy ; for these were scenes 



28 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

^vhich had often awakened the enthusiasm of her deceased 
sister Lucretiii. 

Her mother, in her memoranda, gives a picture of her in 
one of those excited moods. 

" After an evening's stroll along the river bank, we seated 
ourselves by a window to observe the effect of the full moon 
rising over the waters. A holy calm seemed to pervade all 
nature. With her head resting on my bosom, and her eyes 
fixed on the firmament, she pointed to a particularly bright 
star, and said : ^ 

. " ' Behold that bright and sparkling star 
Which setteth as a queen afar : 
Over the blue and spangled heaven 
It sheds its glory in the even ! 

" ' Our Jesus made. that sparkling star 
Which shines and twinkles from afar. 
Oh ! 'twas that bright and glorious gem 
winch shone o'er ancient Bethlehem !' " 

" The summer passed swiftly away," continues her mother, 
" yet her intellectual advances seemed to outstrip the wings 
of time. As the autumn approached, however, I could plainly 
perceive that her health v*'as again declining. The chilly 
winds from the lake were too keen for her weak lungs. My 
own health, too, was failing; it was determined, therefore, 
that we should pass the winter with my eldest daughter, Mrs. 

T , who resided in Canada, in the same latitude it is true, 

but in an inland situation. This arrangement was very 
gratifying to Margaret; and, had my health improved by the 
change, as her own did, she would have been perfectly happy. 
During this period she attended to a regular course of study, 
under my direction ; for, though confined wliolly to my bed, 
and suffering extremely from pain and debility. Heaven in 
mercy preserved my mental faculties from the wreck that 
disease had made of my physical powers." The same plan 
as heretofore was pursued. Nothing was learnt by rote, and 
the lessons were varied to prevent fatigue and distaste, though 
study was always with her a pleasing duty rather than an 
arduous task. After she had studied her lessons by herself, 
she would discuss them in conversation with her mother. Her 
reading was under the same guidance. " I selected her 
books," says Mrs. Davidson, " with much care, and to my 
surprise found that, notwithstanding her poetical temperament, 
she had a high relish for history, and that she would read 



BIOGRAPHY. 29 

with as much apparent interest an abstruse treatise that called 
forth the reflecting powers, as she did poetry or works of the 
imagination. In polite literature Addison was her favourite 
author, but Shakspeare she dwelt upon with enthusiasm. She 
was restricted, however, to certain marked portions of this 
inimitable writer; and having been told that it was not proper 
for her to read the whole, such was her innate delicacy and 
her sense of duty, that she never overstepped the prescribed 
boundaries." 

In the intervals of study she amused herself with drawing, 
for which she had a natural talent, and soon began to sketch 
with considerable skill. As her health had improved since 
her removal to Canada, she frequently partook of the favour- 
ite winter recreation of a drive in a traineau or sleigh, in 
company with her sister and her brother-in-law, and com- 
pletely enveloped in furs and buffalo-robes; and nothing put 
her in a finer flov/ of spirits, than thus skimming along, in 
bright January weather, on the sparkling snow, to the merry 
music of the jingling sleigh-bells. The winter passed away 
without any improvement in the health of Mrs. Davidson ; 
indeed she continued a helpless invalid, confi.ned to her bed, 
for eighteen months ; during all which time little JMargaret 
was her almost constant companion and attendant. 

"Her tender solicitude," writes Mrs. Davidson, "endeared 
her to me beyond any other earthly thing ; although under 
the roof of a beloved and affectionate daughter, and having 
constantly with me an experienced and judicious nurse, yet 
the soft and gentle voice of my little darling, was more than 
medicine to my worn-out frame. If her delicate hand 
smoothed my pillow, it was soft to my aching temples, and 
her sweet smile would cheer me in the lowest depths of 
despondency. She would draw for me — read to me — and 
often, when writing at her little table, would surprise me by 
some tribute of love, which never failed to operate as a cordial 
to my heart. At a time when my life was despaired of, she 
wrote the following lines while sitting at my bed — 

" ' I 'II to thy arms in rapture fly, 

And wipe the tear that dims thine eye ; 
Thy pleasure will be my delight, 
Till thy pure spirit takes its flight. 

" ' When left alone — when thou art gone, 
Yet still I will not feel alone ; 
Thy spirit slill will hover near, 
And ffuard thy orphan daughter dear !' " 



80 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

In this trying moment, when Mrs. Davidson herself had 
rnven up all hope of recovery, one of the most touching sights 
was to see this affectionate and sensitive child tasking herself 
to achieve a likeness of her mother, that it might remain with 
her as a memento. " How often would she sit by my bed," 
says Mrs. Davidson, "striving to sketch features that had 
been vainly attempted by more than one finished artist ; and 
when she found that she had failed, and that the likeness 
could not be recognised, she would put her arms around my 
neck and weep, and say, 'Oh dear mamma, I shall lose you, 
and not even a sketch of your features will be left me! and 
if I live to be a woman, perhaps I shall even forget how you 
looked !' This idea gave her great distress, sweet lamb ! I 
then little thou^ht this bosom would have been her dying 
pillow 1" 

After being reduced to the very verge of the grave, Mrs. 
Davidson began slowly to recover, but a long time elapsed 
before she was restored to her usual degree of health. Mar- 
garet in the meantime increased in strength and stature; she 
still looked fragile and delicate, but she was always cheerful 
and buoyant. To relieve the monotony of her life, which 
had been passed too much in a sick chamber, and to preserve 
her spirits fresh and elastic, little excursions were devised for 
her about the country, to Missique Bay, St. Johns, Alburgh, 
Champlain, &c. The following lines, addressed to her mother 
on one of these occasional separations, will serve as a specimen 
of her compositions in this the eighth year of her age, and 
of the affectionate current of her feelings. 

" Farewell, dear mother ! for a while 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of woe, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow, 

" May the Almighty Father spread 
His sheltering wings above thy head ; 
It is not long that we must part, 
Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 

" Remember, oh remember me. 
Unceasing is my love for thee ; 
When death shall sever earthly ties. 
When thy loved form all senseless lies. 

" Oh that my soul with tliine could flee, 
And roam through wide eternity ; 
Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
And count the brilliant stars of even ! 



BIOGRAPHY. 31 

" Farewell, dear mother ! for a while 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of woe, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow." 

In the month of January, 1833, while still in Canada, she 
was brought very low by an attack of scarlet fever, under 
which she lingered many weeks, but had so fiir recovered by 
the middle of April as to take the air in a carriage. Her 
mother, too, having regained sufficient strength to travel, it 
was thought advisable, for both their healths, to try the effect 
of a journey to New York. They accordingly departed 
about the beginning of May, accompanied by a family party. 
Of this journey, and a sojourn of several months in New 
York, she kept a journal, which evinces considerable habits 
of observation, but still more that kindling of the imagination 
which, in the poetic mind, gives to commonplace realities the 
witchery of romance. She was deeply interested by visits to 
the *' School for the Blind," and the " Deaf and Dumb Asy- 
lum ;" and makes a minute of a visit of a very different 
nature — to Black Flawk and his fellow-chiefs, prisoners of 
war, who, by command of government, were taken about 
through various of our cities, that they might carry back to 
their brethren in the wilderness, a cautionary idea of the 
overwhelming power of the white man. 

" On the 25th June I saw and shook hands with the famous 
Black Hawk, the Indian chief, the enemy of our nation, who 
has massacred our patriots, murdered our women and helpless 
children ! Why is he treated with so much attention by those 
whom he has injured? It cannot surely arise from benevo- 
lence. It must be policy. Be it what it may, I cannot un- 
derstand it. His son, the Prophet, and others who accompa- 
nied him, interested me more than the chief himself. His 
son is no doubt a fine specimen of Indian beauty. He has a 
high brow, piercing black eyes, long black hair, which hangs 
down his back, and, upon the whole, is well suited to captivate 
an Indian maiden. The Prophet we found surveying himself 
in a looking-glass, undoubtedly wishing to show himself off 
to the best advantage in the fair assembly before him. The 
rest were dozing on a sofa, but they were awakened sufficiently 
to shake hands with us, and others who had the courage to 
approach so near them. I remember I dreamed of them the 
following night." 

During this visit to New York, she was the life a^d delight 



32 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of the relatives with whom she resided, and they still retain 
a lively recollection of the intellectual nature of her sports 
among her youthful companions, and of the surprising aptness 
and fertile invention displayed by her in contriving new sources 
of amusement. She had a number of playmates, nearly of 
her own age, and one of her projects was to get up a dramatic 
entertainment for the gratification of themselves and their 
friends. The proposal was readily agreed to, provided she 
would write the play. This she readily undertook, and indeed 
devised and directed the whole arrangements, though she had 
never been but once to a theatre, and that on her previ'ius 
visit to New York. Her little companions were now all busily 
employed, under her direction, preparing dresses and equip- 
ments; robes with trains were fitted out for the female charac- 
ters, and quantities of paper and tinsel were consumed in 
making caps, helmets, spears, and sandals. 

After four or five days had been spent in these preparations, 
Margaret was called upon to produce the play. " Oh !" she 
replied, " I have not written it yet." — " But how is this ! Do 
you make the dresses first, and then write the play to suit 
them?" — "Oh !" replied she gaily, "the writing of the play 
is the easiest part of the preparation ; it will be ready before 
the dresses." And, in fact, in two days she produced her 
drama, " The Tragedy of Alethia." It was not very volumi- 
nous, to be sure, but it contained within it sufl^cient of liigh 
character and astounding and bloody incident to furnish out 
a drama of five times its size. A king and queen of England 
resolutely bent upon marrying their daughter, the Princess 
Alethia, to the Duke of Ormond. The princess most per- 
versely and dolorously in love with a mysterious cavalier, 
who figures at her father's court under the name of Sir Pcrcv 
Lennox, but who, in private truth, is the Spanish king, Rod"- 
rigo, thus obliged to maintain an incognito on account of cer- 
tain hostilities between Spain and England. The odious 
nuptials of the princess with the Duke of Ormond proceed : 
she is led, a submissive victim, to the altar ; is on the point of 
pledging her irrevocable word ; when the priest throws off 
his sacred robe, discovers himself to be Rodrigo, and plunges 
a dagger into the bosom of the king. Alethia instantly plucks 
the dagger from her father's bosom, throws herself into Rod- 
rigo's arms, and kills herself Rodrigo flies to a cavern, 
renounces England, Spain, and his royal throne, and devotes 
himself to eternal remorse. The queen ends the play by a 



BIOGRAPHY. 33 

passionate apostrophe to the spirit of her daughter, and sinks 
dead on the floor. 

The little drama lies before us, a curious specimen ot' the 
prompt talent of this most ingenious child, and by no means 
more incongruous in its incidents than many current dramas 
by veteran and experienced playwrights. 

The parts were now distributed and soon learnt ; Margaret 
drew out a piay-bili, in theatrical style, containing a list of 
the dramatis personce, and issued regular tickets of admission. 
The piece went otT with universal applause : Margaret figur- 
ing, in a long train, as the princess, and killing herself in a 
style that would not have disgraced an experienced stage 
heroine. 

In these, and similar amusements^ her time passed happily 
in New York, for it was the study of the intelligent and 
amiable relatives with whom she sojourned, to render her 
residence among them as agreeable and profitable as possible. 
Her visit, however, was protracted much beyond what was 
originally intended. As the summer advanced, the heat and 
restraint of the city became oppressive ; her heart yearned 
after her native home on the Saranac ; and the following 
lines, written at the time, express the state of her feelings — 

H I\I E . 

I would fly from (he city, would fly from its care, 

To my own native plants and my flow'rets so fair ; 

To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright, 

Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light. 

Again would I view the old mansion so dear, 

Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear; 

I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay, 

For a peep at my home on this fine summer day. 

I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret, 

But the love o{ my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet ! 

There a sister reposes unconscious in death — 

'T was there she first drew and there yielded her breath — • 

A father I love is away from me now — 

Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, 

Or smooth the grey locks, to my fond heart so dear, 

How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear ! 

Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call. 

But my own darling home, it is dearer than all. 

At length, late in the month of October, the travellers 
turned their faces homewards; but it was not the "darling 
home" for which Margaret had been longing: her native cot- 
tage on the beautiful banks of the Saranac. The wintry 
winds from Lake Champlain had been pronounced too severe 



34 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

for her constitution, and the family residence had been re- 
luctantly changed to the village of Ballston. Margaret fcit 
this change most deeply. We have already shown the tender 
as well as poetical associations that Jinked her heart to the 
beautiful home of her childhood ; a presentiment seemed to 
come over her mind that she would never see it more ; a pre- 
sentiment unfortunately prophetic. She was now accustomed 
to give prompt utterance to her emotions in rhyme, and the 
following lines, written at the time, remain a touching record 
of her feelings — 

MY NATIVE LAKE. 

Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, 
Litby the sun's resplendent beam, 
Reflect each bending tree so light 
Upon thy bounding bosom bright. 
Could I but see thee once again, 
My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 

The little isles that deck thy breast, 

And calmly on thy bosom rest. 

How ol'ten, in my childish glee, 

I 've sported round them, bright and free ! 

Could I but see thee once again, 

My own, my beautiful Champlain! 

How oft I 've watch'd the fresh'ning shower 

Bending the summer tree and flower. 

And feit my little heart beat high 

As the bright rainbow graced the sky. 

Could 1 but see thee once again. 

My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 

And shall I never see thee more. 

My native lake, my much-loved shore? 

And must I bid a long adieu. 

My dear, my infant home, to you? 

Shall I not see thee once again, 

My own, my beautiful Champlain? 

Still, though disappointed at not returning to the Saranac, 
she soon made herself contented at Ballston. She was at 
home, in the bosom of her own family, and reunited to her 
two youngest brothers, from whom she had long been sepa- 
rated. A thousand little plans were devised by her, and some 
few of them put in execution, for their mutual pleasure and 
improvement. One of the most characteristic of these was 
a "weekly paper," issued by her in manuscript, and entitled 
"The Juvenile Aspirant." All their donujstic occupations 
and amusements were of an intellectual kind. Their morn- 
ings were spent in study; the evenings enlivened by con- 



BIOGRAPHY. 35 

versation, or by the work of some favourite author, read 
aloud for the benefit of the family circle. 

As the |io\vers of this excitable and imaginative little being 
developed themselves, Mrs. Davidson felt more and more 
conscious of the responsibility of undertaking to cultivate and 
direct them; yet to whom could she confide her that would 
so well understand her character and constitution ? To place 
her in a boarding-school would subject her to increased ex- 
citement, caused by emulation, and her mind was already too 
excitable fov her fragile frame. Her peculiar temperament 
required peculiar culture ; it must neither be stimulated nor 
checked ; and while her imagination was left to its free soar- 
ings, care must be taken to strengthen her judgment, improve 
her mind, establish her principles, and inculcate habits of self 
examination and self-control. All this, it was thought, might 
best be accomplished under a mother's eye; it was resolved, 
therefore, that her education should, as before, be conducted 
entirely at home. " Thus she continued," to use her mother's 
words, " to live in the bosom of affection, where every thought 
and feeling was reciprocated. I strove to draw out the powers 
of her mind by conversation and familiar remarks upon sub- 
jects of daily study and reflection, and tauglit her the neces- 
sity of bringing all her thoughts, desires and feelings under 
the dominion of reason ; to understand the importance of self- 
control, when she found her inclinations were at war with its 
dictates. To fulfil all her duties from a conviction of right, 
because they were duties ; and to find her happiness in the 
consciousness of her own integrity, and the approbation of 
God. How delightful was the task of instructing a mind like 
hers! She seized with avidity upon every new idea, for the 
instruction proceeded from lips of love. Often would she 
exclaim, ' Oh mamma ! how glad I am that you are not too 
ill to teach me I Surely 1 am the haj)piest girl in the world !' 
She had read much for a child of little more than ten years 
of age. She was well versed in both ancient and modern 
histfH-y, (that is to say, in the courses generally prescribed 
for the use of schools,) Blair, Kaimes, and Paley had fjrmed 
part of her studies. She was familiar with most of the British 
poets. Her command of the English language was remark- 
able, both in conversation and writing. She had learned the 
rudiments of French, and was anxious to become perfect in 
the language; but I had so neglected my duty in this respect 
after I left "school, that 1 was not qualified to instruct her. A 



36 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

friend, however, who understood French, called occasionally 
and gave her lessons for his own amusement ; slic soon trans- 
lated well, and such was her talent for the acquisition of lan- 
guages, and such her desire to read every thing in the origi- 
nal, that every obstacle vanished before her perseverance. 
She made some advances in Latin, also, in company with her 
brother, who was attended b}^ a private teacher; and they 
were engaged upon the early books of Virgil, vvhen her health 
again gave way, and she was confined to her room by severe 
illness. These frequent attacks upon a frame so delicate 
awakened all our fears. Her illness spread a gloom through- 
out our habitation, for fears were entertained that it would end 
in a pulmonary consumption." After a confinement of two 
months, however, she regained her usual, though at all times 
fragile, state of health. In the following spring, vvhen she 
had just entered upon tlie eleventh year of her age, intelli- 
gence arrived of the death of her sister, Mrs. T., who had 
been resident in Canada. The blow had been apprehended 
from previous accounts of her extreme illness, but it was a 
severe shock. She had looked up to this sister as to a second 
mother, and as to one who, from the precarious health of her 
natural parent, might be called upon to fulfil tliat tender office. 
She wa? one also calculated to inspire affection; lovely "in 
person, refined and intelligent in mind, still young in years; 
and v/ith all this, her only remaining sister! In the follow- 
ing lines, poured out in the fulness of her grief, she fouch- 
ingly alludes to the previous loss of her sister Lucretia, so 
ofien the subject of her poetic regrets, and of the consolation 
she had always felt in still having a sister to love and cherish 
her. 

ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER ANNA ELIZA. 

While weeping o'er our sister's tomb, 

And heaving many a heartfelt sigh, 
And while in youth's bewitching bloom, 

I thought not that thou too couklst die. 

When gazing on that httle mound, 

Spread o'er with turf, and flowers, and mould, 

I thought not that thy lovely form 
Could be as motionless and cold. 

When her light, airy form was lost 

To fond affection's weeping eye, 
f thought not we should mourn for thee, 

I thought not that thou too couldst die. 



BIOGRAPHY. 37 

Yes, sparkling gem I when thou wert here, 

From death's encirchng mantle free, 
Our mourning parents wiped each tear. 

And cried, " Why weep? we still have thee." 

Each tender thought on thee they turn'd, 

Each hope of joy to thee was given, 
And, dv/eliing on each matchless charm, 

They half forgot the saint in heaven. 

But thou art gone, for ever gone ! 

Sweet wanderer in a world of woe ! 
Now, unrestrained our grief nmst pour ; 

Uncheck'd our mourning tears must flow. 

How oft I 've pressed my glowing lip 

In rapture to.thy snowy brow, 
And gazed upon that angel eye, 

Closed in death's chilhng slumber now ! 

While tottering on the verge of life. 

Thine every nerve with pain unstrung. 
That beaming eye was raised to heaven, 

That heart to God for safety clung. 

And when the awful moment came, 

Replete with trembling hope and fear. 
Though anguish shook thy slender frame, 

Thy thoughts were in a brighter sphere. 

The wreath of light which round thee play'd, 

Bore thy pure spirit to the skies ; 
With thee we lost our brightest gem, 

But heaven has gained a glorious prize. 

Oh may the bud of promise left. 

Follow the brilhant path she trod, 
And of her fostering care bereft. 

Still seek and find his mother's God. 

But he, the partner of her life. 

Who shared her joy and soothed her woe, 
How can I heal his broken heart ? 

How bid his sorrow cease to flow ? 

It's only time these wounds can heal ; 

Time, from whose piercing pangs alone 
The poignancy of grief can steal, 

And hush the heart's convulsive moan. 

To party ihe effect ot"" this most afllicting blow, Margaret 
was sent on a visit to New York, where she passed a couple 
of months in the society of affectionate and intelligent friends, 
and rernrned home in June, recruited in health and spirits. 
The si;Liht of her mother, however, though habituated to sor- 
row and .suffering, yet bowed down by her recent bereave- 
ment, called forth her tenderest sympathies; and we consider 
it as illustrating the progress of the intellect and the history 
3 * 



38 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of liie lieart of this most interesting child, to insert nnother 
<-(lusion called forth by this donriestic calamity : 

TO MY MOTllEIl OlM'RESSKI) WJTIl SORROW. 

Weep, oh my mother ! I will bid tlioo woep ! 

For grid' like ihino requires I lie :iid of tears ; 

ihit oh, I would not see thy l)OSoni thus 

liow'd down to ciirth, with anguish so severe ! 

I would not see thine ard(;nt feedings crusli'd, 

Deaden'd to all save sorrow's ihriiling tone, 

Jiikc the i)ale llower, which liangs ils tir<Joping head 

]>(Miealh thr; (^hilling blasts of stern Tl^^ohjs ! 

Oh 1 luive seen liiat Ijrovv wilii pleasure ilush'd, 

'J'he hjfhining snnle around it Ijrightly phiying, 

And tiu! dark eyehds trenibhng with dehght — 

J>ut now how ehanged ! — thy downeast eye is bent, 

With iieavy, thouglitl'ul glances, on the ground, 

And oh htnv (piickly starts the tear-drop there ! 

It is not ag(! which dims its wonted fire, 

Or plants his hlies on thy palhd cheek. 

Hut sorrow, k('enest, darkest, l)iting sorrow I 

When love would s(;ek to le;id thy lu>art from grief, 

And fondly pleads one cheering look to view, 

A sad, a faint sad smile one instant gleams 

AthwiuM. the brow where sorrow sits enshrined, 

brooding o'er ruins of what oiu'e was fair; 

J>ul like departing sunset, as it throws 

One liu'ewell shadow o'er the sleeping eartii, 

(So soon in sombre twilight to be wrapt,) 

Thus, thus it fades! and sorrow nu)re profound 

Dwells on each featiu-e where a smile, so cold, 

It scarcely might be called the mockery 

Of cheerful peace, hut just before had been. 

Long years of suffering, brightcuied not by joy, 

Death and disease, fell harbinger of woe. 

Must leave their impress on the human face. 

And dim the lire of youth, the glow of pride; 

l>ut oh my mother! mourn not thus i'or/ier, 

The rose, just blown, transplanted to its home, 

Nor weep that her angeli(! soul has found '* 

A resting-place willi (lod. 

Oh let the eye of heaven-lxiru faith disperse 

The dark'ning misis of earthly grief, and pierce 

'I'he clouds which shadow dull mortality ! 

Ci'a/e on the heaven of glory crown'd witli light, 

Where rests ihino own sweet child with radiant brow 

In the same voice which charm'd her fatlu-r's halls, 

Chanting swt>et anthems to her Maker's praise ; 

And watching with deliuht the gentle buds 

Which sh<! had lived to mourn ; watching thine own. 

My mother! the suit unfolding blossoms, 

Which, ere the breath of earthly sin eo\dd taint, .j 

Departed.to their Savioiu' ; there to wait j 

l''or thy loncl spirit in the home ol' bliss! 

The aiige! babes have found a second mother; 

iiul when ihv soul shall pass from earth away, 



BlOCRAPilY. 89 

'Vhr. lilll<! clicritlis ihcii sliull r\\u<r to iIk.t, 

AikI llirir svv(!t;t ^niurdian W(:l(:(»iii(; iIkjc with joy, 

I'rolcM'lor of lli(;ir liclplcs.s iiilaiicy, 

Wlio luii^^hl lliciii liow to rcacli lliat Imppy Ikmjk!. 

Oil tliiiik ol' this, iiiid l(;t one licitiliell Kiiiilc 

JlliiriK! (Iio iaco so loiiff i',stran{>('d from joy; 

jhit may it ri^st not on (liy hrcjvv aloius, 

JJut sluul a cliccrin'^ iiilliuuicc (i'cr lliy heart, 

Too Hwect lo l)(; Wiv^oHr.n ! Tfiouffli thy loved 

And hcaiitiCnl are fled I'roni earth away, 

Slill lliere are ihoHe wlio love thet! — who wr)ul(l live 

Willi thee alone — who wt-utps or .smiles with iIkm;. 

'J'hiidv ol' Ihy noble sons, and think (.!' her 

Who pray.s thee to he hajipy in lln; hope 

Of meeiinff thoHC in heaven who loved thee here, 

And irainin^j those- on earth thai they may live 

A Itand of saints with thee in J'aradise. 

Tho rooiijar studies of Maroarot wove now rcsiimod, ana 
hvr rn()tli(;r foiiMfJ, in atlcndino to ju^r irislriKUioii, a rciif,'!' iVotn 
tlio i)(>i;^imncy of h(!r aflliclioiis. Margarc.'t always enjoyed 
the counfry, and in i'mo weather induI;L,^ed in lonj^ rambles in 
tJKj woods, accompanied l)y some IViend, or attended by a 
(aitldul servant woman. VVhen in the house, the vcrstitility 
of Inn* talents, her constitutional vivacity, and an aptness at 
coining occupation and amus(;ment out of the most trifling 
incident, perp(!tually reli(!ved ijje monotony of domestic lile; 
while the faint ojcam of health that oc(;asionally flitted across 
her cheek, bei^uile(l the anxious forebodin<^ that liad be(;n in- 
dulged conceriung Iter. " A strong hope was rising in my 
heart," says her mother, "that our frail, delicate blossom 
would continue to flourish, and that it was |)ossible I might 
live to befiold the perfection of its beauty! Alas! Ikjw un- 
certain is every earthly prospect ! J^iven then tlie canker was 
concealed within the bright bud, which was eventually to 
destroy its loveliness! About the last of December she was 
again seized witli a liver cotnplaint, whicli, by sympathy, 
aiic'cted her lungs, and again awakened all our fears. »She 
was confined to her bed, and it was not until March that she 
was able to sit up and walk about her room. The confine- 
ment then became irksome, but h(.'r kind and skilful physician 
}jad declared tliat slui must not be [)ermitted to venture out 
until mild wetulier in April," During this lit of illness her 
mind had nsmained in an urutsual stttte of ittactivity ; but with 
the op(!ning of s[)ring, afid IIkj l;iif)t ri'turn of health, it broke; 
fi^rth with a brilliancy aiui a restless excitability that astonish(;d 
and alarmed. " In conversation," says her moth(.'r, " iier 
s ^lics of wit wen; daz'/Iing. She com|)osed and wrote in- 



/JC MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

cessantly, or rather would have done so, had I not interposed 
my authority to ])revent this unceasing tax upon hoth her 
mental and physical strength. Fugitive pieces were produced 
every day, such as, ' 'i'he Shunamite,' ' Belshazzar's Feast,' 
'Tiie Nature of Mind,' 'Boabdil el Chico,' &c. She seemed 
to exist only in the regions of poetry." We cannot help 
thinking that these moments of intense poetical exaltation 
sometimes approached to delirium, for we are told by her 
mother that " the image of her departed sister Lucretia min- 
gled in all her aspirations; the holy elevation of Lucretia's 
character had taken deep hold of her imagination, and in hei 
moments of enthusiasm she felt that she held close and inti- 
mate communion with her beatified spirit." 

This intense mental excitement continued after she was 
permitted to leave her room, and her application to her books 
and papers was so eager and almost impassioned, that it was 
found expedient again to send her on an excursion. A visit 
to some relatives, and a sojourn among the beautiful scenery 
on the Mohawk river, had a salutary eifect ; but on returning 
home she was again attacked with alarming indisposition, 
which confined her to her bed. 

"The struggle between nature and disease," says her 
mother, " was for a lime doubtful ; she was, however, at 
lengtli restored to us. With returning health, her mental 
labours were resumed. I reasoned and entreated, but at last 
became convinced that my only way was lo let matters take 
their course. If restrained in her favourite pursuits she was 
unhappy. To acquire useful knowledge v/as a motive suffi- 
cient to induce her to surmount all obstacles. I could only 
select for her a course of calm and quiet reading, which 
while it furnished real food for the mind, would comipose 
rather than excite the imagination. She read much, and 
wrote a great deal. As for myself, I lived in a state of con- 
stant anxiety lest these labours should prematurely destroy 
his delicate bud." 

In the autumn of 1835, Dr. Davidson made arrangements 
to remove his family to a rural residence near New York, 
pleasantly situated on the banks of the Sound, or East River, 
as it is commonly called. The following extract of a lettei 
from Margaret to Moss Kent, Esq.,* will show her anticipa 
tions and plans on this occasion. 

* This gen'leman was an early and valued friend of the Davidson 
fatnilv, and is honourably mentioned i>y Mr. Morse ibr the interest he 



BIOGRAPHY. 41 

Soptcmljer 20. 1^35. 

♦' We shall soon leave "^allston for New York. We are 
to reside in a beautiful spot, upon the East River, near the 
Shot Tower, four miles from town, romantically called 
Ruremont. Will it not be deligiitful ! Reunited to father 
and brothers, we must, we will be happy ! We shall keep a 
horse and a little pleasure-wajron, to transport us to and 
from town. But I intend my time shall be constantly em- 
ployed in my studies, which 1 hope I shall continue to pursue 
at home. I wish (and mamma concurs in the opinion that 
it is best) to devote this winter to the study of the Latin 
and French languages, while music and dancing will unbend 
my nnnd after close application to those studies, and give 
me that recreation which mother deems requisite for me. 
If father can procuie private teachers tor me, I shall be saved 
the dreadful alternative of a boarding-school. Mother could 
never endure the thought of one for me, and my own aver- 
sion is equally strong. Oh ! ray dear uncle, you must come 
and see us. Come soon and stay long. Try to be with us 
at Christmas. Mother's health is not as good as when you 
were here. I hope she will be benefited by a residence in 
her native city — in the neighbourhood of those friends she 
best loves. The state of her mind has an astonishing elTect 
upon her health." 



took in the education of Lucreiia. The notice of Mr. Morse, however, 
leaves it to be supposed that Mr. Kent's acquaintance with Dr. and Mr.s. 
Davidson was brought al)0ut by his admiration of their daughter's 
talents, and commenced with overtures for her instruction. The follow- 
ing extract of a letter from Mrs. Davidson will place this matter in n 
proper light, and show that these oflcrs on the part of Mr. Kent, and 
the partial acceptance of them by Dr. and Mrs. Davidson, were warrantee! 
by the terms of intimacy which before existed between them. '* I had 
the pleasure," says Mrs. Davidson, "to know Mr. Kent before my 
marriage, after which he frequently called jt our house when visiting his 
sister, with whom I was on terms of intimacy. On one of these occa- 
sions he saw Lucrctia. He }\ad often seen her when a child, l)ut she 
had changed much. Her unconmion ])ersonal beauty, graceful man- 
ners, and superior intellectual endowments made a strong impression on 
him. Me conversed with her, and examined her on the difierent branches 
which she was studying, and pronounced her a good English scholar. 
He also found her well read, and possessing a fund of general informa- 
tion. He warmly expressed his admiration of her talents, and urged 
me to consent that he sliould adopt her as his daughter, and complete 
her education on the most liberal plan. I so far acceded to his proposi- 
tion as to permit him to place her with Mrs. Willard, and assured him 
I would take his generous ofler into consideration. Had she lived, we 
should iiave complied with his wishes, and Lucretia would have been 
the child of his adoption. The pure and disinterested friendship of this 
excellent man continued until the day of his death. For Margaret he 
manifested the alfection of a father, and the attachment was returned 
by her with all the warmth of a young and grateful heart. She always 
addressed him as her dear uncle Kent." 



42 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The following letter to the same gentleman, is dated Octo- 
ber 18, 1835: 

"We are now at Ruremont, and a more delightful place 
I never saw. The house is large, pleasant, and commodious, 
and the old-fashioned style of every thing around it trans- 
ports the mind to days long gone by, and my imagination 
is constantly upon the rack to burden the past with scenes 
transacted on this very spot. In the rear of the mansion a 
lawn, spangled v/ith beautiful flowers, and shaded by spread- 
ing trees, slopes gently down to the river side, where ves- 
sels of every description are constantly spreading their 
white sails to the wind. In front, a long shady avenue leads 
to the door, and a large extent of beautiful undulating 
ground is spread with fruit- trees of every description. In 
and about the house there are so many little nooks and by- 
places, that sometimes I fancy it has been the resort of 
smugglers; and who knows but I shall yet find their hidden 
treasures somewhere ? Do come and see us, my dear uncle; 
but you must come soon, if you would enjoy any of the 
beauties of the place. The trees have already doffed their 
robe of green, and assumed the red and yellow of autumn, 
and the paths are strewed with fallen leaves. But there is 
loveliness even in the decay of nature. But do, do come 
soon, or the branches will be leafless, and the cold winds 
will prevent the pleasant rambles we now enjoy. Dear 
mother has twice accompanied me a short distance about 
the grounds, and indeed I think her health has improved 
since we removed to New York, though she is stiil very 
feeble. Her mind is much relieved, having her little family 
gathered once more around her. You well know how 
great an effect her spirits have upon her health. Oh ! if my 
dear mother is only in comfortable health, and you will 
come, I think I shall spend a delightful winter prosecuting 
my studies at home." 

" For a short time," writes Mrs. Davidson, "she seemed 
to luxuriate upon the beauties of this lovely place. She se- 
lected her own room, and adjusted all her little tasteful orna- 
ments. Her books and drawing implements were transported 
to this chosen spot. Still she hovered around me like my 
shadow. Mother's room was still her resting-place; mother's 
bosom her sanctuary. She sketched a plan for one or two 
poems which were never finished. But her enjoyment was 
snon interrupted. She was again attacked by her old enemy, 
and though her confinement to her room was of short dura- 
tion, she did not get rid of the cough. A change now came 



BIOGRAPHY. 4.T 

over her mind. Hitherto she had always delighted in serious 
f-onversation on heaven ; the pure and elevated occupations 
of saints and angels in a future state had proved a delightful 
source of contemplation ; and she would become so animated 
that it seemed sometimes as if she would fly to realize her 
hopes and joys ! — Now her young heart apj)eared to cling to 
life and its enjoyments, and more closely than I had ever 
known it. 'She was never ill.' — When asked the question, 
'Margaret, how are you?" ' Well, quite well,' was her reply, 
when it was obvious to me, who watched her every look, that 
she had scarcely strength to sustain her weak frame. She 
saw herself the last daughter of her idolizing parents — the 
only sister of her devoted brothers ! Life had acquired new 
charms ; though she had always been a happy, light-hearted 
child." 

The following lines, written about this tmie, show the elas- 
ticity of her spirit, and the bounding vivacity of her imagina- 
tion, that seemed to escape, as in a dream, from the frail 
tenement of clay in which they were encased : 

STANZAS. 

Oh for the pinions of a bird, 

To bear me far away, 
Where songs of other lands are heard, 

And other waters play ! 

For some aerial car, to fly 

On through the realms of light, 
To regions rife with poesy, 

And teeming with delight. 

O'er many a wild and classic stream 

In ecstasy I 'd bend, 
And hail each ivy-covcr'd tower, 

As though it were a friend. 

O'er piles where many a wintry blast 

Is swept in mourntul tones, 
And fraught with scenes long glided past, 

It shrieks, and sighs, and moans. 

Through many a shadowy grove, and round 

Full many a cloister'd hall, 
And corridors, where every step 

With echoing peal doth fall. 

Enchanted with the dreariness. 

And awe-struck with the gloom, 
I would wander, like a spectre, 

'Mid the regions of the tomb. 



44 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And Memory her enchanting veil 

Around my soul should twine, 
And Superstition, wildly pale, 

Should woo mc to lier &hrine ; 

I 'd cherish still her witching gloom, 

Half shrinking in my dread, 
But, powerless to dissolve the spell, 

Tursue her fearful tread. 

Oh what unmingled pleasure then 

My youthful heart would feel, 
As o'er its thrilling cords each thought 

Of former days would steal ! 

Of centuries in oblivion wrapt. 

Of forms which long were cold, 
And all of terror, all of woe, 

That history's page has told. 

How fondly in my bosom 

Would its monarch. Fancy, reign, 
And spurn earth's meaner offices 

With glorious disdain! 

Amid the scenes of past delight, 

Or misery, I'd roam, 
Where ruthless tyrants sway'd in might, 

Where princes found a home. 

Where heroes have enwreathed their brows 

With chivalric renown, 
Where beauty's hand, as valour's meed, 

Hath twined the laurel crown. 

I 'd stand where proudest kings have stood, 

Or kneel where slaves have knelt, 
Till wrapt in magic solitude, 

I feel what they have felt. 

Oh for the pinions of a bird, 

To waft me far away. 
Where songs of other lands are heard. 

And other waters play I 

About this time Mrs. Davidson received a letter from tne 
English gentleman for whom Margaret, when quite a child, 
had conceived such a friendship, her dear elder brother, as 
she used to call hinn. The letter bore testimony to his undi- 
minished regard. He was in good health ; married to a very 
estimable and lovely woman ; was the father of a fine little 
girl, and was at Havana with his family, where he kindly 
entreated Mrs. Davidson and Margaret to join them; being 
sure that a winter passed in that mild climate would have the 
happiest effect upon their healths. His doors, his heart, he 
added, were open to receive them, and his amiable consort 



BIOGRAPHY. 45 

impatient to bid them welcome. "Margaret," savs Mrs. 
Davidson, " was overcome by the perusal of this letter. She 
laughed and wept alternately ; — one moment urged me to go, 
'she was herself well, but she was sure it would cure me:' 
the next moment felt as though she could not leave the friends 
to whom she had so recently been reunited. Oh ! had I gone 
at that time, perhaps my child miijht still have lived to bless 
me 1" 

During the first weeks of Margaret's residence at Rure- 
mont, the character and situation of the place seized power- 
fully upon her imagination.- " The curious structure of this 
old-fashioned house," says Mrs. Davidson, " its picturesque 
appearance, the varied and beautiful grounds which sur- 
rounded it, called up a thousand poetic images and romantic 
ideas. A long gallery, a winding staircase, a dark, narrow 
passage, a trap-door, large apartments with massive doors, 
and heavy iron bars and bolts, all set her mind teeming with 
recollections of what she had read and imagined of old cas- 
tles, banditti, smugglers, &c. She roamed over the place in 
perfect ecstasy, peopling every part with images of her own 
imagination, and fancying it the scene of some foregone event 
of dark and thrilling interest." There was, in fact, some 
palpable material for all this spinning and weaving of the 
fancy. The writer of this memoir visited Ruremont at the 
time it was occupied by the Davidson family. It was a 
spacious, and somewhat crazy and poetical-looking mansion, 
with large waste apartments. The grounds were rather wild 
and overgrown, but so much the more picturesque. It stood 
on the banks of the Sound, the waters of which rushed, with 
whirling and impetuous tides, below, hurrying on to the dan- 
gerous strait of Flell Gate. Nor was this neighbourhood 
without its legendary tales. These wild and lonely shores 
had, in former times, been the resort of smugglers and pirates. 
Hard by this very place stood the country retreat of Ready- 
Money Prevost, of dubious and smuggling memory, with his 
haunted tomb, in which he was said to conceal his contraband 
riches ; and scarce a secret spot about these shores but had 
some tradition connected with it of Kidd the pirate and hjs 
buried treasures. All these circumstances were enough to 
breed thick-coming fancies in so imaginative a brain; and the 
result was a drama in six acts, entitled " The Smuggler," the 
scene of which was laid at Ruremont in the old time of the 
province. The play was written with great rapidity, and, 
4 ' ' 



46 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

considering she was little more than twelve years of age, and 
had never visited a theatre but once in her life, evinced great 
aptness and dramatic talent. It was to form a domestic en- 
tertainment for Christmas holidays ; the spacious back parlour 
was to be fitted up for the theatre. In planning and making 
arrangements for the performance, she seemed perfectly 
happy, and her step resumed its wonted elasticity, though her 
anxious mother often detected a suppressed cough, and re- 
marked a hectic flush upon her cheek. " We now found," 
says Mrs. Davidson, " that private teachers were not to be 
procured at Ruremont, and I feared to have her enter upon 
a course of study which had been talked of, before we came 
to this place. I thought she was too feeble for close mental 
application, while she was striving, by the energies of her 
mind and bodily exertion, (which only increased the morbid 
excitement of her system,) to overcome disease, that she 
feared was about to fasten itself upon her. She was the more 
anxious, therefore, to enter upon her studies ; and when she 
saw solicitude in my countenance and manner, she would fix 
her sweet sad eyes upon my face, as if she would read my 
very soul, yet dreaded to know what siie mi^ht find written 
there. I knew and could understand her feelings ; she also 
understood mine; and there seemed to be a tacit compact 
between us that this subject, at present, was forbidden ground. 
Her father and brothers were lulled into security by her cheer- 
ful manner and constant assertion that she was well, and con- 
sidered her cough the efi^ect of recent cold. My opinion to 
the contrary was regarded as the result of extreme maternal 
anxiety." 

She accordingly went to town three times a week, to take 
lessons in French, music, and dancing. Her progress in 
French was rapid, and the correctness and elegance of her 
translations surprised her teachers. Her friends in the city, 
seeing her look so well and appear so sprightly, encouraged 
her to believe that air and exercise would prove more bene- 
ficial than confinement to the house. She went to town in 
the morning and returned in the evening in an open carriage, 
with her father and one of her elder brothers, each of whom 
was confined to his respective office until night. In this way 
she was exposed to the rigours of an unusually cold season ; 
yet she heeded them not, but returned home full of animation 
to join ner little brothers in preparations for their holiday fete. 
Their anticipations of a joyous Christmas were doomed to 



BIOGRAPHY. 47 

sad disappointment. As the time approached, two of her 
brothers were taken ill. One of these, a beautiful boy about 
nine years of age, had been the favourite companion of her 
recreations, and she had taken great interest in his mental 
improvement. "Towards the close of 1835," says her 
mother, "he began to droop; his cheek grew pale, his step 
languid, and his bright eye heavy. Instead of rolling the 
hoop, and bounding across the lawn to meet his sister on her 
return from the city, he drooped by the side of his feeble 
mother, and could not bear to be parted from her ; at length 
he was taken to his bed, and, after lingering four months, he 
died. This was Margaret's first acquaintance with death. 
She witnessed his gradual decay almost unconsciously, but 
still persuaded herself ' he will, he must get well !' She saw 
her sweet little playfellow reclining upon my bosom during 
his last agonies ; she witnessed the bright glow which flashed 
upon his long-faded cheek; she beheld the unearthly light of 
his beautiful eye, as he pressed his dying lips to mine, and 
exclaimed, 'Mother! dear mother! the last hour has come!' 
Oh ! it was indeed an hour of anguish never to be forgotten. 
Its effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her life. 
The sudden change from life and animation to the still uncon- 
sciousness of death, for ihe time almost paralysed her. She 
shed no tear, but stood like a statue upon the scene of death. 
But when her eldest brother tenderly led her from the room, 
her tears gushed forth — it was near midnight, and the first 
thins that aroused her to a sense of what was goins: on 
around her, was the thought of my bereavement, and a con- 
viction that it was her province to console me." 

We subjoin a record, from her own pen, of her feelings on 
this lamentable occasion. 

ON THE CORPSE OF MY LITTLE BROTHER KENT. 

Beauteous form of soulless clay ! 

Image of what once was life ! 
Hash'd is thy pulse's feeble play, 

And ceased the pangs of mortal strife. 

Oh ! I have heard ihy dying groan. 

Have seen thy last of earthly pain ; 
And while I weep that thou art gone, 

I cannot wish thee here again. 

For ah ! the calm and peaceful smile 

Upon that clay-cold brow of thine, 
Speaks of a spirit freed from sin, 

A spirit joyful and divine. 



4« MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But thou art gone ! and this cold clay 

Is all that now remains of thee; 
For thy iVi;ed soul hath wing'd its way 

To blessed immortality. 

That dying smile, that dying groan, 

I never, never can forget, 
Till death's cold hand hath clasp'd my own, 

His impress on my brow has set. 

Those low, and sweet, and plaintive tones. 
Which o'er my heart like music swept, 

And the deep, deathlike, chilling moans, 
Which from thy heaving bosom crept. 

Oh ! thou wert beautiful and fair, 

Our loveliest and our dearest one ! 
No more thy i)ains or joys we share. 

No more — my brother, thou art gone. 

Thou 'rt gone ! What agony, what woe 

In that brief sentence is express'd ! 
Oh that the burning tears could How, 

And draw this mountain from my breast ! 

The anguish of the mother was still more intense, as she 
saw her bright and beautiful but perishable oflsprmg thus, 
one by one, snatched away from her. " My own weak 
frame," says she, " was unable longer to sustain the effects 
of long watching and deep grief. I had not only lost my 
lovely boy, but I felt a strong conviction that I must soon 
resign my Margaret; or rather, that she would soon follow 
me to a premature grave. Although she still persisted in the 
belief that she was well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush, 
(so often mistaken for the bloom of health,) the hurried beat- 
ing of the heart, and the drenching night perspirations con- 
firmed me in this belief, and I sank under this accumulated 
load of nfRiction. For three weeks I hovered upon the bor- 
ders of the grave, and when I arose from this bed of pain — 
so feeble that I could not sustain my own weight, it was to 
witness the rupture of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by 
exertions to suj)press a cough. Oh ! it was agony to see her 
thus! I was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, 
lest the agitation of her mind should produce fatal conse- 
quences. As I seated myself by her, she raised her speaking 
eyes to mine with a mournful, inquiring gaze, and as she read 
the anguish which I could not conceal, she turned away with 
a look of despair. She spoke not a word, but silence, still, 
deathlike silence, pervaded the apartment." The best of 
medical aid was called in, but the physicians gave no hope; 
they considered it a deep-seated case of pulmonarv consimnp- 



BIOGRAPHY. 49 

tion. Ah mat could be done was to alleviate the symptoms, 
and protract life as long as possible by lessening the excite- 
ment of the system. When Mrs. Davidson returned to the 
bedside, alter an interview with the physicians, she was re- 
garded with an anxious, searching look, by the lovely little 
sufferer, but not a question was made. Margaret seemed 
fearful of receiving a discouraging reply, and " lay, all pale 
and still, (except when agitated by the cough,) .striving to 
calm the tumult of her thoughts," while her mother seated 
herself by her pillow, trembling with weakness and sorrow. 
Long and anxious were the days and nights spent in watching 
over her. Every sudden movement or emotion excited the 
hemorrhage. ''Not a murmur escaped her lips," says her 
mother, " during her protracted sufferings. 'How are you, 
love? how have you rested during the night?' ' Well, dear 
mamma ; I have slept sweetly.' I have been night after 
night beside her restless couch, wiped the cold dew from her 
brow, and kissed her faded cheek in all the agony of grief, 
while she unconscioi-sly slept on ; or if she did awake, her 
calm sweet smile, which seemed to emanate from heaven, lias, 
spite of my reason^ lighted my heart with hope. Except 
when very ill, she was ever a bright dreamer. Her visions 
were usually of an unearthly cast: about heaven and angels. 
She was wandering among the stars ; her sainted sisters were 
her pioneers; her cherub brother walked hand in hand with 
her through the gardens of paradise! 1 was always an early 
riser, but alter Margaret began to decline I never disturbed 
her until time to rise for breakfast, a season of social inter- 
course in which she delighted to unite, and from which she 
was never willing to be absent. Often when I have spoken 
to her she would exclaim, ' Mother, you have disturbed the 
brightest visions that ever mortal was blessed with! I was in 
the midst of such scenes of deligiu ! Cannot I have time to 
finish my dream?' And when I told her how long it was 
until breakfast, ' It will do,' she would say, and again lose 
herself in her bright imaginings; for I considered these as 
moments of inspiration rather than sleep. She told me it was 
not sleep. I never knew but one, except Margaret, who en- 
joyed this delightful and mysterious source of happiness : that 
one was her departed sister Lucrefia. When awaking from 
these reveries, an almost ethereal light played about her eye, 
which seemed to irradiate her whole face. A holy calm per- 
vaded her manner, and in truth she looked moie like an angel 
4* 



50 MISS margar::t davidson. 

who had been communing with kindred spirits in the world 
of h"ght, than any thing of a grosser nature." 

How truly does this correspond with Milton's exquisite 
description of the heavenly influences that minister to virgin 
innocence — 

" A thousand liv'ried angels lackey her, 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt ; 
And in clear dream and solemn vision, 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear: 
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 
The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
And turn it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
Till all be made immortal." 

Of the images and speculations that floated in her mind 
during these half dreams, h^lf reveries, we may form an idea 
from the following lines, written on one occasion after what 
her mother used to term her " descent into the world of 
reality." 

THE JOYS OF HEAVEN. 

Oh who can tell the joy and peace 

Which souls redeem' d shall know, 
When all their earthly sorrows cease. 

Their pride, and pain, and woe ! 
Who may describe the matchless love 
Which reigneth with the saints above ? 

What earthly tongue can ever tell 

The pure, unclouded joy 
Which in each gentle soul doth swell, 

Unmingled with alloy. 
As, bending to the Lord Most High, 
They sound his praises through the sky ? 

Through the high regions of the air, 

On angels' wings, they glide. 
And gaze in wondering silence there 

On scenes to us denied : 
Their minds expanding every hour, 
And opening like the summer flower. 

Though not like them to fade away, 

To die, and bloom no more ; 
Beyond the reach of fell decay, 

They stand in light and power; 
But pure, eternal, iree from care, 
They join in endless praises there ! 

When first they leave this world of woe 

For fair, immortal scenes of light. 
Angels attend them from belovk^, 

And upward wing their joyful flight; 
Where, fired with heavenly rapture's flame, 
They raise on high Jehovah's name. 



BIOGRAPHY. 51 

O'er the broad arch of heaven it peals, 
While shouts of praise v^nnumbered flowj 

The full, sweet notes sublimely swell, 
And prostrate angels humbly bow ; 

Each heart is tuiied to joy above, 

Its theme, a Saviour's matchless love. 

The dulcet voice, which here below 
Charm'd with dehght each listening ear, 

Mix'd with no lingering tone of woe, 
Swelling harmonious, soft and clear, 

Will sweetly fill the courts above, 

In strains of heavenly peace and love. 

The brilliant genius, which on earth 

Is struggling with disease and pain. 
Will there unlbld in power and light, 

Nought its bright current to restrain ; 
And as each brilliant day rolls on, 
'Twill find some^race, till then unknown. 

And as the countless years flit by. 

Their minds progressing still, 
The more they know, these saints on high 

Praise more His sovereign will ; 
No breath from sorrow's whirlwind blast 
Around their footsteps cast. 

From their high throne they gaze abroad 

On vast creation's wondrous plan, 
And own the power, the might of God, 

In each resplendent work they scan ; 
Though sun and moon to nought return, 
Like stars these souls redeem' d shall burn. 

Oh ! who could wish to stay below. 

If sure of such a home as this, 
Where streams of love serenely flow. 

And every heart is filled with bliss ? 
They praise, and worship, and adore 
The Lord of heaven for ever more. 

During this dangerous illness she became acquainted with 
Miss Sedgwick. The first visit of that most excellent and 
justly distinguished person, was when Margaret was in a 
state of extreme debility. It laid the foundation of an attach- 
ment on the part of the latter, which continued until her 
death. The visit was repotited ; a correspondence afterwards 
took place, and the friendship of Miss Sedgwick became to 
the little enthusiast a source of the worthiest pride and purest 
enjoy nient throughout the remainder of her brief existence. 

At length the violence of her malady gave way to skilful 
remedies and the most tender and unremitting assiduity. 
When enabled lo leave her chamber, she rallied her spirits, 
made great exertions to be cheerful, and strove to persuade 



5f} MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

herself that all might yet be well with her. Even her parents, 
with that singular self-delusion inseparable from this cruelly 
flattering malady, began to indulge a trembling hope that she 
might still be spared to them. 

In the month of July, her health being sufficiently re-esta- 
blished to bear the fatigues of travelling, she was taken by 
her mother and eldest brother on a tour to Dutchess County 
and the western part of New York. On leaving home, she 
wrote the following lines, expressive of the feelings called 
forth by the events of the few preceding months, and of a 
foreboding that she should never return : 

FAREWELL TO RUREMONT. 

Oh! sadly I gaze on this beautiful landscape, 
And silent and slow do the big tear-drops swell ; 

And I haste to my task, while the deep sigh is breaking, 
To bid thee, sweet Ruremont, a lasting farewell. 

Oh I soft are the breezes which play round the valley, 
And warm are the sunbeams which gild thee with light. 

All clear and serenely the deep waves are rolling, 
The sky in its radiance is dazzlingly bright. 

Oh ! gaily the birds 'mid thy dark vines are sporting, 
And, heaven-taught, pouring their gladness in song; 

While the rose and the lily their fair lieads are bending 
To hear the soft anthems float gently along. 

Full many an hour have I bent o'er thy waters. 

Or watch'd the light clouds with a joy-beaming eye, 

Till, delighted, I long'd for the eagle's swift piniolis, 
To pierce the full depths of that beautiful sky. 

Though wild were the fancies which dwelt in my bosom. 
Though endless the visions which swept o'er my sou!. 

Indulging those dreams was my dearest enjoyment — 
Enjoyment unmingled, unchained by control ! 

But each garden of earth has a something of sorrow, 

A thorn in its rose, or a blight in its breeze, 
Though blooming as Eden, a^shadow hangs o'er thee, 

The spirit of darkness, of pain, of disease ! 

Yes, Ruremont! thy brow, in its loveliness deck'd. 

Is entwined v.'ith a fatal but beautiful wreath. 
For thy green leaves have shrunk at the mourner's cold tou^'^ 

And thy pale flowers have wept in the presence of deatii. 

Yon violets, which bloom in their delicate freshness, 
^Were strew'd o'er the grave of our fairest and best; 
Von roses, which charm by tlieir richness and fragrance, 
Have withcr'd and died on his icy-cold breast. 



BIOGRAPHY. 53 

The soft voice of spring had just breathed o'er the valley, 
The sweet birds just caroU'd their song in her bower, 

When the angel of death in his terror swept o'er us, 
And placed in his bosom our fragile young flower. 

Thus, Ruremont, we mourn not thy beauties alone, 
Thy flowers in their freshness, thy stream in its pride, 

But we leave the loved scene of our mourning and tears, 
We leave the dear spot where our cherish'd one died. 

The mantle of beauty thrown gracefully o'er thee, 

Must touch a soft chord in each dehcate heart ; 
But the tie is more sacred which bids us deplore thee, 

Endear'd by affliction 'tis harder to part. 

The scene of enjoyment is ever most lovely, 

Where bhssful young spirits donee mirthful and glad ; 

But when sorrow has mingled her tears with our pleasure, 
Our love is more tender, our parting more sad. 

How mild is the wing of this delicate zephyr, 

Which fans in its coolness my feverish brow ! 
But that light wing is laden with breezes that wither, 

And check the warm current of life in its flow. 

Wh.y blight such an Eden, oh spirit of terror ! 

W^hich sweepest thy thousands each hour to the tomb ? 
Why, why shouldst tliou roam o'er this beautiful valley. 

And mingle thy breath with the rose's perfume ? 

The sun rises bright o'er the clear dancing waters, 

And tinges with gold every light waving tree, 
And the young birds are singing their welcome to morning — 

Alas ! they will sing it no longer for me I 

The young buds of summer their soft eyes are opening, 
The wild flowers are bending the pure ripples o'er; 

But I bid them farewell, and my heart is nigh breaking 
To think I shall see them and tend them no more. 

I mark yonder path, wliere so often I've wander'd. 
Yon moss-covered rock, with its sheltering tree, 

And a sigh of deep sadness bursts forth to remember 
That no more its soft verdure shall blossom for me. 

How often my thoughts, to these loved scenes returning, 
Shall brood o'er the past with its joy and its pain : 

Till waking at last from the long, pleasing slumber, 
I sigh to behold thee, thus blooming, again. 

The little party was absent on its western tour about two 
months. " Margaret," says her mother, " appeared to enjoy 
the scenery, and every thing during the journey interested 
her. But there was a sadness in her countenance, a pensive- 
ness in her manner, unless excited by external circumstances, 
which deeply affected me. She watched every variation in 
my countenance ; marked every little attention directed to 



54 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

herself, such as an alteration in her diet, dress, exposure to 
the changes of weather, yet still discovered an unwillingness 
to speak of her declining health, and laboured to conceal every 
unfavourable symptom or change for the worse. This, of 
course, imposed upon me the most painful restraint. How 
heart-breaking to find that she considered my tongue as the 
herald of mournful tidings, and my face as the mirror of evil 
to come ! How true that self-deception seems to be almost an 
invariable sympton attending this dreadful complaint 1 Mar- 
garet, all unconscious of the rapid strides of the destroyer, 
taught herself to believe that the alarming symptoms of her 
case existed only in the imagination of her too anxious mo- 
ther. Yet knowing my experience in these matters, she still 
doubted and trembled, and feared to ask, lest a confirmation 
of her vague apprehensions should be the result. She avoided 
the slightest allusion to the subject of her disease in any way ; 
and in the morbid excitement of her mind it appeared to her 
almost like accusing her of something wrong to say that she 
was not well." 

The following letter was written by her to Miss Sedgwick, 
after her arrival in Dutchess County. 

'■ Lithgovv, Dutchess County. 

"Happy as I am, my dear madam, in the privilege of 
writing to you, I cannot permit another day to pass ere I 
inform you of our safe arrival at one of the most lovely 
spots in this beautiful and healthy country. Our passage 
up the river was rather tedious, being debarred the pleasure 
of remaining upon deck, but this privation was counter- 
balanced by the pleasure of a few moments' conversation 
with my dear brother, who was permitted to meet us when 
the boat stopped at West Point. Arrived at Poughkeepsie, 
brother M. procured a private carriage, which was to 
convey us to the end of our journey, a distance of twenty 
miles. The drive was delightful ! The scenery ever chang- 
ing, ever beautiful! We arrived at Lithgow without much 
fatigue, where a hearty welcome, that sweetest of cordials, 
was awaiting us. Oh ! it is a lovely spot ! I thought Rure- 
mont the perfection of beauty ! but here I find the flowers 
are as blooming, the birds as gay, the air as sweet, and the 
prospect far more varied and extensive; 'tis true we have 
lost the beautiful East River, with its crowd of vessels 
sweeping gracefully along, bat here are hills crowned with 
the richest foliage, valleys sprinkled with flowers, and wa- 
tered with winding rivulets ; and here, what we prize more 
than all, a mild, salubrious air, which seems, in the worJjS 



BIOGRAPHY. ^ry 

of the divine poet, "to bear healing in its wings.' Dear 
mother bore the fatigue of our journey better than we 
anticipated ; and although I do not think she is permanently- 
better, stie certainly breathes more freely, and seems alto- 
gether more comfortable than when in the city. Oh ! how 
sincerely I hope that a change of air and scene may raise 
her spirits and renovate her strength. She is now in the 
midst of friends whom she has known and loved for many 
years; and surrounded by scenes connected with many of 
her earliest remembrances. Farewell, my dear madam! 
Please give my love to your dear little nieces ; and should 
you have the leisure and inclination to answer this, believe 
me your letter will be a source of much gratification to 
your 

Highly obliged little friend, 

M. M. Davidson. 
Miss Catherine Sedgwick. 

August, 1836." 

The travellers returned to Ruremont in September. The 
tour had been of service to Margaret, and she endeavoured to 
persuade herself that she was quite well. If asked about her 
health, her reply was, that " if her friends did not tell her she 
was ill, she should not, from her own feelings, suspect it." 
That she was, notwithstanding, dubious on this subject, was 
evident from her avoiding to speak about it, and from the 
uneasiness she manifested when it was alluded to. It was 
still more evident from the change that took place in her 
habits and pursuits; she tacitly adopted the course of conduct 
that had repeatedly and anxiously, but too often vainly, been 
urged by her mother, as calculated to allay the morbid irrita- 
bihty of her system. She gave up her studies, rarely in- 
dulged in writing or drawing, and contented herself with light 
reading, with playing a few simple airs on the piano, and with 
any other trivial mode of passing away the time. The want 
of her favourite occupations, however, soon made the hours 
move heavily with her. Above all things, she missed the 
exciting exercise of the pen, against which she had been 
especially warned. Her mother observed the listlessness and 
melancholy that were stealing over her, and hoped a change 
of scene might banish them. The airs from the river, too, 
had been pronounced unfavourable to her health ; the family, 
therefore, removed to town. The change of residence, how- 
ever, did not produce the desired effect. She became more 
and more dissatisfied with herself, and with the life of idle- 
ness, as she considered it, that she was leading; hut still she 



5<} MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

had resolved to give the prescribed system a thorough trial 
A new source of solicitude was now awakened in the bosom 
of her anxious mother, who read in her mournfully quiet 
manner and submissive silence, the painful effects of com- 
pliance with her advice. There was not a murmur, however, 
from the lips of Margaret, to give rise to this solicitude; on 
the contrary, whenever she caught her mother's eye fixed 
anxiously and inquiringly on her, she would turn away and 
assume an air of cheerfulness. 

Six months had passed in this inactive manner. "She 
was seated one day by my side," says Mrs. Davidson, 
* weary and restless, and scarcely knowing what to do with 
herself, when, marking the traces of grief upon my face, she 
threw her arms about my neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, 
' My dear, dear mother !' 'What is it affects you now, my 
child?' 'Oh! I know you are longing for something from 
my pen !' I saw the secret craving of the spirit that gave 
rise to the suggestion. ' I do indeed, my dear, delight in the 
effusions from your pen, but the exertion will injure you.' 
'Mamma, I must write! I can hold out no longer! I will 
return to my pen, my pencil, and my books, and shall again 
be happy !' I pressed her to my bosom, and cautioned her 
to remember she was feeble. ' Mother,' exclaimed she, ' I 
am well ! I wish you were only as well as I am !' " 

The heart of the mother was not proof against these appeals: 
indeed she had almost as much need of self-denial on this 
subject as her child, so much did she delight in these early 
blossomings of her talent. Margaret was again left to her 
own impulses. All the frivolous expedients for what is usually 
termed killing time were discarded by her with contempt; 
her studies were resumed; in the sacred writings and in the 
pages of history she sought fitting aliment for her mind, half 
famished by its long abstinence; her ))oetical vein again burst 
forth, and the following lines, written at the time, show the 
excitement and elevation of her feelings: 

EARTH. 

Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 

The cravings of immortal mind ! 
Earth ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 

The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 

Impatient of its long delay, 

The pinion'd spirit fain would roam, 
And leave this crumbling house of clay, 

To seek above its own bright home . 



BIOGRAPHY. 57 

The spirit, 'tis a spark of light 

Struck from our God's eternal throne, 
Which pierces through these clouds of night, 

And longs to shine where once it shone ! 

Earth ! there will come an awful day, 

^When thou shalt crumble into nought; 
When thou shalt melt beneath that ray 

From whence thy splendours first were caught. 

Quench'd in the glories of its God, 

Yon burning lamp shall then expire ; 
And flames, from heaven's own altar sent, 

Shall light the great funereal pyre. 

Yes, thou must die ! and yon pure depths 

Back from thy darken'd brow shall roll ; 
But never can the tyrant death 

Arrest this feeble," trusting soul. 

When that great voice, which form'd thee firsi. 

Shall tell, surrounding world, thy doom, 
Then the pure soul, enchain'd by thee, 

Shall rise triumphant o'er thy 'tomb. 

Then on, still on, the unfetter'd mind 
^ Through realms of endless space shall fly; 
No^earth to dim, no chain to bind, 
Too pure to sin too great to die. 

Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 

The cravings of immortal mind ! 
EarUi ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 

The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 

Yet is this never-dying ray 

Caught in thy cold, delusive snares. 
Cased in a cell of mouldering clay. 

And bow'd by woes, and pain, and cares! 

Oh ! how mysterious is the bond 

Which blends the earthly with the pure, 
And mingles that which death may blight 

With that which ever must endure T 

Arise, my soul, from all below, 

And gaze upon thy destined home. 
The heaven of heavens, the throne of God, 

Where sin and care can never come. 

Prepare thee for a state of bliss. 

Unclouded by this mortal veil. 
Where thou shalt see thy Maker's face. 

And dews from heaven's own air inhale. 

How sadly do the sins of earth 

Deface thy purity and light, 
That thus, while gazing at tnyself. 

Thou shrink'st in horror at the sight! 
5 



58 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Compound of weakness and of strength, 

Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power I 
Loflier than earth, or air, or sea. 

Yet meaner than the lowhest flower ! 

Soaring towards heaven, yet chnging still 

To earth, by many a tender tie ! 
Longing to breathe a purer air. 

Yet fearing, trembling thus to die ! 

She was soon all cheerfulness and enjoyment. Her pen 
and her pencil were freqLiently in her hand ; she occupied 
herself also with her needle in embroidery on canvass, and 
other fancy work. Hope brightened with the exhilaration of 
her spirits. " 1 now walk and ride, eat and sleep as usual," 
she observes in a letter to a young friend, " and although not 
well, have strong liopes that the opening spring, which reno- 
vates the flowers, and fields, and streams, will revive my en- 
feebled frame, and restore me to my wonted health." In 
these moods she was the life of the domestic circle, and these 
moods were frequent and long. And here we should observe, 
that though these memoirs, which are furnished principally 
from the recollections of an afflicted mother, may too often 
represent this gifted little being as a feeble invalid struggling 
with mortality, yet in truth her life, though a brief, was a 
bright and bappy one. At time3 she was full of playful and 
innocent gaiety; at others of intense mental exaltation ; and 
it v/as the very intensity of her enjoyment that made her so 
often indulge in those poetic paroxysms, if we may be allowed 
the expression, which filled her mother with alarm. A few 
v/eeks of this intellectual excitement was followed by another 
rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and a long interval of 
extreme debility. The succeeding winter was one of vicissi- 
tude. She had several attacks of bleeding at the hmgs, which 
evidently alarmed her at the time, though she said nothing, 
and endeavoured to repress all manifestation of her feelings. 
If taken suddenly, she instantly resorted to the sofa, and, by 
a strong effort, strove to suppress every emotion. With her 
eyes closed, her lips compressed, and her thin pale hand rest- 
ing in that of her anxious mother, she seemed to be waiting 
the issue. Not. a murmur would escape her lips, nor did she 
ever complain of pain. She would often say, by way of con- 
solation to her mother, "Mamma, I am highly fivoured. I 
hardly know what is meant by pain. I am sure I never, to 
my recollection, have felt it." The moment she was able to 
sit up,, after one of these alarming attacks, every vestige of a 



BIOGRAPHY. 59 

sick chamber must be removed. No medicine, no cap, no 
bed-gown, no loose wrapper must be in sight. Her beautiful 
dark hair must be parted on her broad, high forehead, her 
dress arranged with the same care and neatness as when in 
perfect health ; indeed she studied to banish from her appear- 
ance all that might remind her friends that her health was 
impaired, and, if possible, to drive the idea from her own 
tnoughts. Her reply to every inquiry about her health was, 
Well, quite well; or at least / feel so, though mother con- 
tinues to treat me as an invalid. True i have a cold, 
attended by a cough, that is not willing to leave me; but 
when the spring returns, with its mild air and sweet blossoms, 
1 think this cough, which alarms mother so much, will leave 
me. ' 

She had, indeed, a strong desire to live ; and the cause of 
that desire is indicative of her character. With all her retirin»- 
modesty, she had an ardent desire for literary distinction"! 
J. he example of her sister Lucrelia was incessantly before 
her; she was her leading star, and her whole soul was but to 
emulate her soarings into the pure regions of poetry. Her 
apprehensions were that she might bo cut off in the immatur- 
ity of her powers. A simple, but most touching ejaculation, 
betrayed this ieeling, as, when lying on a sofa, in one of those 
alarming paroxysms of her malady, she turned her eyes, full 
of mournlul sweetness, upon her mother, and, in a low, sub- 
dued voice, exclaimed, " Oh ! my dear, dear mother ! / avi 
so young!'''' 

^ We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia was 
incessantly before her, and no better proof can be given of it 
than in the following lines, written at this time, which breathe 
the heavenly aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains, 
10 us, quite unearthly. We may have read poetry more 
artificially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly 
divine in its inspiration. 

TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

My sister! With that thrilling word 

What thoughts unnumber'd wildly spring ! 

What echoes 'xwAny heart are stirr'd, 
While thus I touch the trembling string ! 

My sisterj ere this youthful mind 

Could feel the value of thine own ; 
Ere this infantine heart could bind, 

In its deep cell, one look, one tone. 



60 MISS MAfiGARET DAVIDSON.. 

To glide along on memory's stream, 
And bring back thrilling thoughts of tJaee 

Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream, 
Thy soul had struggled and was free 1 

My sister ! with this mortal eye, 
I ne'er shall see ihy form again; 

And never shall this mortal ear 

Drink in the sweetness of thy strain 1 

Yet fancy wild, and glowing love, 
Reveal thee to my spirit's view-, 

Enwreath'd with graces from above. 
And deck'd in heaven's own fadeless hue. 

Thy glance of pure seraphic light 

Sheds o'er my heart its soft'ning ray ; 

Thy pinions guard my couch by night, 
And hover o'er my path by day. 

I cannot weep that thou art fled, — 
For ever blends my soul with thine ; 

Each thought, by purer impulse led, 
Is soaring on to realms divine. 

Thy glance unfolds my heart of hearts, 
And lays its inmost recess bare ; 

Thy voice a heavenly calm imparts, 
And soothes each wilder passion there. 

I hear thee in the summer breeze. 
See thee in all that 's pure or fair; 

Thy whisper in the murmuring trees. 
Thy breath, thy spirit everywhere. 

Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleet, 
Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue ; 

Thy tears, "such tears as angels w^eep," 
Fall nightly with the glistening dew. 

Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, 
And teach its softer strains to flow ; 

Thy spirit checks each vain desire. 
And gilds the low'ring brow of woe. 

When fancy wings her upward flight 
On through the viewless realms of air, 

Clothed in its robe of matchless hght, 
I view thy ransom'd spirit there ! 

Far from her wild delusive dreams. 
It leads my raptured soul away, 

Where the pure fount of glory streams. 
And saints live on through endless day. 

When the dim lamp of future years 

Sheds o'er my path its glimmering faint, 

First in the view thy form appears. 
My sister, and my guardian saint ! 



BIOGRAPHY. 61 

Thou gem of light ! my leading star ! 

What thou hast been, I strive to be ; 
When from the path I wander far, 

Oh turn thy guiding beam on me. 

Teach me to fill thy place below, 

That I may dwell with thee above; 
To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 

And prove, like tiiine, a sister's love. 

Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay. 

For sin too pure, for earth too bright I 
And death, who call'd thee hence away, 

Placed on his brow a gem of light ! . 

A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 

Beyond the ocean's swelling wave, 
W^hich gilds the memory of the dead, 

And pours its radiance on thy grave.. 

When day hath left his glowing car. 

And evening spreads her robe of love ; 
When worlds, like travellers from afar, 

Meet in the azure fields above ; 

When all is still, and fancy's realm 

Is opening to the eager view, 
Mine eye full oft, m search of thee. 

Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue. 

I know that here thy harp is mute. 

And quench'd the bright poetic fire, 
Yet still 1 bend my ear, to catch 

The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 

Oh ! if this partial converse now 

So joyous to my heart can be, 
How must the streams of rapture flow 

When both are chainless, both are free ! 

W^hen borne from earth for evermore, 

Our souls in sacred joy unite, 
At God's almighty throne adore. 

And bathe in beams of endless light ! 

Away, away, ecstatic dream ! 

I must not, dare not dwell on thee ; 
My soul, immersed in life's dark stream, 

Is far too earthly to be free. 

Though heaven's bright portal were unclosed, 

And angels wooed me I'rom on high. 
Too much I fear my shrinking soul 

Would cast on earth iis longing eye. 

Teach me to fill thy place below, 

That I may dwell with thee above ; 
To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe. 

And prove, like thine, a sister's love. 



62 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

It was probably this trembling solicitude about the duration 
of her existence, that made her so anxious, about this time, 
to employ every interval of her precarious health in the cul- 
tivation of her mental powers. Certain it is, during the win- 
ter, chequered as it was with repeated fits of indisposition, 
she applied herself to historical and other studies with an 
ardour that often made her mother tremble for the con- 
sequences. 

The following letters to a young female friend were written 
during one of these intervals. 

" New Yoik, February ':G, 1837. 

" Notwithstanding all the dangers which might have be- 
fallen your letter, my dear Henrietta, it arrived safely at its 
resting-place, and is now lying open before me, as I am 
quietly sitting, this chill February morning, to inform you 
of its safe arrival. I lind I was not mistaken in believing 
you too kind to be displeased at my remissness ; and I now 
hope that through our continued intercourse neither will 
have cause to complain of the other's negligence. 

" For my ow^n part, I am always willing to assign every 
reason but that of forgetfulness for a friend's silence. Know- 
ing hov/ often I am obliged to claim this indulgence for my- 
self, and how often ill health prevents me from writing to 
those 1 love, I am the more ready to frame apologies for 
others; indeed I think this spirit oi charily (if so I rnay call 
it) is necessary to the happiness of correspondents, and as 
I am sure you possess it, 1 trust we shall both glide quietly 
along without any of those little jars which so oflen inter- 
rupt the purest friendships. And now that my dissertation 
on letter-writing is at an end, I must proceed to inform you 
of what I fear will be a disappointment, as it breaks away 
all those sweet anticipations expressed in your afiectionate 
letter. Father has concluded that we shall not return to 
Plattsburgh next spring, as he had once intended ; he fears 
the effects of the cold winds of Lari^e Champlain upon mo- 
ther and myself, who are both delicate; and as we have so 
many dear friends in and about the city, a nearer location 
would be pleasanter to us and to them. We now think se- 
riously of returning to Ballston, that beautiful little village 
where v/e have already spent two delightful years; and 
though in this case I must relinquish the idea of visiting my 
dear 'oM /<07??e' and my dear youn^ friend, hope points to 
the hour when you may become my guest, and whei-e the 
charms of novelty will in some degree repay us i'^r tiie de- 
lightful associations and remembrances we had hoped to 
enjoy. But I cannot help now and then casting a backward 
glance upon the beautiful scenes you describe, and wishing 



BIOGRAPHY. 63 

myself with you. A philosopher would say, ' Since you 
cannot enjoy what you desire, turn to the pleasures you 
may possess, and seek in them consoiatioji for what you 
have lost ;' but I am no philosopher. 

^ ^ ;.^ * :i: :f: ;f; 

" I will endeavour to answer your question about Mrs. 
Hemans. I have read several lives of this distinguished 
poetess, by different authors, and in all of them find some- 
thing new to admire in her character and venerate in her 
genius! She was a woman of deep feeling, lively fancy, and 
acute sensibilities; so acute, indeed, as to have formed hei- 
cliief unhap{)iness through life. She mingles her own feel- 
ings with her poems so well, that in reading them you read 
her character. But there is one thing 1 have often remarked : 
the mind soon wearies in perusing many of her pieces at 
o?ice. She expresses those sweet sentiments so often, and 
introduces the same stream of beautiful ideas so constantly, 
that they sometimes degenerate into monotony. I know 
of no higher treat than to read a few of her best produc- 
tions, and comment upon and feel their beauties; but perus- 
ing her volume is to me like listening to a strain of sweet 
music repeated over and .over again, until it becomes sc 
familiar to the ear, that it loses the charm of variety. 

"Now, dear H., is not this presumption in me, to criticise 
so exquisite an author'? But you desired my opinion and I 
have given it to you without reserve. 

" You desire me to send you an original poem, for your 
self Now, my dear Hetty, this is something I am not at 
present able to do for any of my friends, w^'iting being sup- 
posed quite injurious to persons with weak lungs. And I 
have still another reason. You say the effect of conveying 
feelings from the heart and recording them upon paper, 
seems to deprive them of half their warmth and ardour ! 
Now, my dear friend, would not the effect of forming thenj 
into verse seem to render them still less sincere ! Is not 
plain prose, as it slides rapidly from the pen, more apt to 
speak the feelings of the heart, than when an hour or two 
is spent in giving them rhyme and measure, and all the 
attributes of poetry!" >^ ***** * 

TO THE SAME. 

" New York, April 2J, 1837. 

'• About an hour since, my dear Henrietta, I received your 
token of remembrance, and commence my answer with an 
act of obedience to your sovereign will ; but I fear you will 
repent when too late, and while nodding over the closely 
written sheet, and peering impatiently into each crowded 
corner, you v/ill secretly wish you had allowed my pen to 



G4 I^nSS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

commence its operations at a more respectful distance from 
the top of the page. However, the request was your own: 
1 obey like an obedient friend, and you must abide the con- 
sequences of your rash demand. Should the fir.st glance 
at my well-tilled sheet be followed by a ycnvn, or its last 
word be welcomed with a smile, you must blame your own 
imprudence in bringing down upon your luckless head the 
accumulated nothings of a scribbler like myself It is indeed 
true that we shall not return to Plattsburgh; and much as I 
long to revisit the home of my infancy, and the friends of 
my'earliest remembrance, I shall be obliged to I'elinquish 
the pleasure in reaht}', though fancy, unshackled by earth, 
shall direct her piinons to the north, and linger, delighted, 
on the beautiful banks of the Champlain ! Methinks I hear 
you exclaim, with impatience, ' K^'zc?/.' what is it ? I long 
for something more substantial' So do I, ma chere, but 
since I cannot hope to behold my dear n-ative village and its 
dear inhabitants vvith othei' eyes than those of fancy, I will 
e*en employ them to the best of my ability. You may be 
sure we do not prefer the confined and murky atmosphere 
of the city to the pure and health-giving breezes of the 
country ; far from it — we are already preparing to remove, 
as soon as the mild influence of spring lias prevailed over 
the chilling blasts which we .still hear Vv'histling around us; 
and gladly shall we v.-elcome the day that will release us 
fi-om our bondage. But there is some drawback to every 
pleasure — some bitter drop in almost every cup of enjoy- 
ment; and we shall taste this most keenly v/hen we bid 
farewell to the delightful circle of friends who have cheered 
us during the solitude and confinement of this dreary win- 
ter. The New York air, so far from agreeing with us, has 
deprived us of every enjoyment beyond the iDoundaries of 
our own walls, and it will be hard to leave those friends 
who have taught us to forget the privations of ill health in 
the pleasure of their society. We have chosen Ballston for 
our temporary home, from the hope of seeing them oftener 
there than we could in a secluded town, and because pure 
air, medicinal waters, and good society have all combined 
to render it a delightful country residence; yet with all 
these advantages, it can never possess half the charms of 
my dear old home ! 

" That dear old home, where pass'd my childish yearh, 
When fond affection wiped my infanl tear- ! 
Where first I learn'd from whence my blessings came. 
And lisp'd in faltering tones, a ?nothc7-'s name ! 

" That dear old Jiome, where memory fondly clin^gs. 
Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 
Aroimd whose scenes my tlioughts deiiglit to stray, 
And pa^s tlic hours in plf^asing dreams away ! 



BIOGRz'LPHY. 65 

" Oh, shall I ne'er behold thy waves again, 
My native lake, my beautiiul Champlain? 
Shall I no niore above thy ripples bend 
In sweet comnianiou with my childhood's friend ? 

"Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave, 
The patriot's cradle and the v/arrior's grave ? 
Thy mountains, tinged with daylight's parting glow ? 
Thy islets, mirror'd in the stream belov/ ? 

*' Back ! back ! — thou present ! robed in shadows lie, 
And rise, fhou past^ before ray raptured eyel 
Fancy shall gild the irovvning lapse between, 
And memory's hand shall paint the glowing scene ! 

" Lo ! how the view beneath her pencil grows ! 
The fiow'ret blooms, the winding streamlet flows; 
With former friendi^I trace my footsteps o'er, 
And muse, delighted, on my own green shore ! 

*' Alas it fades — the fairy dream is past ! 
Dissolved the veil by sportive fancy cast. 
Oh why should thus our brightest dreams depart, 
And scenes illusive cheat the longing heart ? 

** V/here'er through future life my steps may roam, 
I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home ; 
With all my joys the thought oi thee shall blend, 
And joiiied with thee, shall rise my childhood's friend. 

" Mother is most truly alive to all these feelings. During 
our first year in New York, we were living a few miles 
from the city, at one of the loveliest situations in the world! 
I think I have seldom seen a sv/eeter spot ; but all its beau- 
ties could not divert her thoughts from our own dear home, 
and despite the superior advantages we there enjoyed, she 
wept to'enjoy it again. But enough of this ; if I suffer my 
fancy to dwell longer upon these loved scenes, I shall scrib- 
ble over my vv^hole" sheet, and, leaving out what I most wish 
to say, fill it with nothing but 'Home, home, sweet, sweet 
home !' as the song goes. 

June. 1837. 

"Now for the miglity theme upon which I scarcely dare 
to dwell : my visit lo Plattsburgh ! Yes, my dear H., I do 
think, or rather I do hope, that such a time may come when 
I may spend at least a week with you. I dare not hope for 
a longer time, for I know I shall be disappointed. About 
the niiddle of this month brother graduates, and will leave 
West Point for home. He intends to visit Plattsburgh, and 
it will take much to wean me from my favourite plan of 
accompanying him. However, all is uncertain — I must not 
think of it too much— but if I do come, it will be with the 
hope of gaining a still greater pleasure. We are now de- 
lightfully situated. Can you not return with me, and make 
me a visit ^ What jov is like the joy of anticipation 1 What 



66 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

pleasure like those we look forward to, through a long lapse 
of time, and dwell upon as some bright land that we shall 
inhabit when the present shall have become the past ? I 
have heard it observed that it was foolish to anticipate- 
that it was only increasing the pangs of disappointment. 
Not so : do we not, in our most sanguine hopes, acknow- 
ledge to ourselves a fear, a doubt, an expectation of disap- 
pointment! Shall we lose the enjoyment of the present, 
because evil may come in future J No, no — if anticipation 
was not meant lor a solace, an alleviation of the sorrows 
of life, would it have been so strongly implanted in our 
hearts by the great Director of all our passions? No— it is 
too precious ! I would give up half the reality of joy for the 
sweet anticipation. Stop — I have gone too far — for indeed 
I could 7tot resign my visit to you, though I might hope and 
anticipate for years ! 

"Just as I had written the above, father interrupted me 
with an invitation to ride. We have just returned from a 
long, delightful drive. Though Ballston cannot compare 
with Plattsburgh for its rich and varied scenery, still there 
are romantic v.oods and shady paths which cannot fail to 
delight the true lover of nature. 

;jc ;fc :':■■. ■{< % * % :!i 

" So you do have the blues, eh ? I had almost said I v/as 
glad of it; but that would be too cruel — I will only say, one 
does not like to be alone, or in any thing singular, and I too, 
once in a while, receiv'e a visit from these provoking imps 
— are they nof? You should not have blamed Scott only, 
(excuse me,) but yourself; for selecting such a book to chase 
away melancholy. 

"You ask me if I rem.ember those story-telling- days ? In- 
deed I do, and nothing affords me more pleasure than the 
recollection of those happy hours! If my memory could 
only retain the particulars of my last story, gladly v/ould I 
resume and continue it v/hen I meet you again. I will ease 
T/our heart of its fear for mine — your scolding did not break 
It. My dear H., it is not made of such brittle materials as 
to crack for a trifle. No, no ! It would be far more prudent 
to save it entire for some greater occasion, and then make 
the crash as loud as possible — don't you think so] Oh non- 
sensical nonsense ! Well, 

' The greatest and the wisest men 
Will fool a little now and then.' 

But I believe I will not add another word, lest my pen 
should slide off into some new absurdity." 

On the 1st of May, 1837, the family left New York for 
Ballston. They had scarce reached there when Mrs. David- 



BIOGRAPHY. 67 

son had an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, which con- 
fined her to her bed, and rendered her helpless as an infant. 
It was Margaret's turn now to play the nurse, which she did 
with the most iender assiduity. The paroxysms of her mo- 
ther's complaint were at first really alarming, as may be seen 
by the lullowing extract of a letter from Margaret to Miss 
Sedgwick, written a sliort time afterwards : 

"V/e at first thought she would never revive. It was in- 
deed a dreadful hour, my dear madam — a sad trial for poor 
father and myself, to watch, as we supposed, the last agonies 
of one so beloved as my dear mother ! But the cloud has 
passed by, and my heart, relieved from its burden, is filled, 
almost to overflowing, with gratitude and joy. After a few 
hours of dreadful suspense, reaction took place, and since 
then she has been slowly and steadily improving. In a few 
da3'-s, I hope, she will be able to ride, and breathe some of 
this delightful air, which cannot fail to invigorate and re- 
store her. My own health has improved astonishingly 
since my coming here. I walk, and ride, and exercise as 
much as possible in the open air, and find it of great service 
to me. Oh how much I hope to see you here ! ■"'' * * * 
Do, if possible, try the Ballston air once more. It has been 
useful to you once, it might be still more so now. You will 
find vv^arm hearts to welcome you, and we will do all in our 
power to make your visit pleasant to you. The country 
does indeed look beautiful ! The woods are teeming with 
wild flowers, and the air is full of melody. The soft, wild 
warbling of the birds is far more sweet to me than the 
most laboured performances of art ; ihe7j may weary by 
repetition, but what heart can resist the influence of a 
lovely day ushered in by the morning song of those sweet 
caroliers ! and even to sleep, as it were, by their melodious 
evening strain. How I wish you could be here to enjoy it 
with me." 

The summer of 1837 was one of the happiest of her fleet- 
ing existence. For some time after the family removed to 
Ballston she was very much confined to the house by the 
illness of her mother, and the want of a proper female com- 
panion to accompany her abroad. At length, a Mr. and Mrs. 
IT, estimable and intimate friends, of a highly intellectual 
character, came to the village. Their society was an invalua- 
ble acquisition tg Margaret. In company with them she was 
enabled to enjoy the healthful recreations of the country ; to 
ramble in the woods; to take exercise on horseback, of which 
she was extremely fond, and to make excursions about the 



68 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

neighbourhood ; while they exerted a guardian care to prevcnl 
her, in her enthusiastic love for rural scener}^ from e.x|)osing 
herself to any thing detrimental to her health and strength. 
She nave herself up, for a time, to these exhilarating exercises, 
abstaining from her usual propensity to overtask her inteliecf, 
for she had imbibed the idea that active habits, cheerful recrea- 
tions, and a holiday frame of mind would eflectually re-esta- 
blish her health. As usual, in her excited moods, she occa- 
sionally carried these really healthful practices to excess, and 
would often, says her mother, engage, with a palpitating heart, 
and a pulse beating at the rate of one hundred and thirty in 
a minute, in all the exercises usually prescribed to preserve 
health in those who are in full possession of the blessing. She 
was admonished of her danger by several attacks upon her 
lungs during the summer, but as they were of short duration, 
she still flattered herself that she was getting well. There 
seemed to be almost an infatuation in her case. Theexhilara. 
lion of her spirits was at times so great as almost to overpower 
her. Often would she stand by the window admiring a glo- 
rious sunset, until she would be raised into a kind of ecstasy; 
her eye would kindle ; a crimson glow v/ould mount into her 
cheek, and she would indulge in some of her reveries about 
the glories of heaven, and the spirits of her deceased sisters, 
partly uttering her fancies aloud, until turning and catching 
her mother's eye fixed painfully upon her, she would throw 
her arms round her neck, kiss away the tears, and sink 
exhausted on her bosom. The excitement over, she would 
resume her calmness, and converse on general topics. Among 
her writings are fragments hastily scrawled down at this time, 
showing the vague aspirations of her spirit, and her vain at- 
tempts to grasp those shadowy images that sometimes flit across 
the poetic mind. 

Oh for a something more than this, 

To fiil the void within my breast; 
A sweet reality of bliss, 

A something bright, but unexpress'd ! 

My spirit longs for something higher 
Than life's dull stream can e'er supply ; 

Something to feed this inward fire, 

This spark, which never more can die. 

I'd hold companionship with all 

Of pure, of noble, or divine ; 
With glowing heart adoring fall, 

And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine. 



BIOGRAPHY. 69 



My soul is like a broken lyre, 

Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone ; 

A note, half trembling on the wire — 
A heart that wants an echoing tone. 

When shall I find this shadowy bliss. 

This shapeless phantom of the mind ? 
This something words can ne'er express, 

So vague, so faifit, so undefined ? 

Language ! thou never canst portray 

The fancies lioating o'er my soul ! 
Thou ne'er canst chase tlie clouds away 

Which o'er my changing visions roll I 

And again— 

Oh I have gazed on forms of hght, 

Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear — 
Till in that Heeling space of sight 

Were merged tiie feehngs of a year. 

And I have heard the voice of song, 
Till my full heart gush'd wild and free, 

And my rapt soul would float dlong 
As if on waves of melody. 

But while I glow'd at beauty's glance, 

I long'd to feel a deeper thrill : 
And while I heard that dying strain, 

I sigh'd for something sweeter still. 

I have been happy, and my soul 

Free from each sorrow, care, regret; 
Yet even in these hours of bliss 

I long'd to rind them happier yet. 

Oft o'er the darkness of my mind 

Some meteor thought has glanced at will; 

'T was bright — but ever have I sigh'd 
To find a fancy brighter still. 

Why are these restless, vain desires, 
Which always grasp at something more 

To feed the spirit's hidden fires, 

Which burn unseen — unnoticed soar ? 

Well might the heathen sage have known 

That earth must fail the soul to bind ; 
That life, and life's tame joys, alone, 

Could never chain the ethi.real mind. 

The above, as wo have before observed, are mere frag- 
ments, unfinished and uncorrected, and some of the verses 
have a vagueness incident to the mood of mind in which they 
were conceived, and the haste with which they were penned', 
but in these lofty, indefinite aspirations of a young, half- 
schooled, and inexperienced mind, we see the early and im- 
6 



70 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

patient flutterings of a poetical genius, which, if spared, 
might have soared to the highest regions. 

In a letter written to Miss Sedgwick during the autumn, 
she speaks of her health as having rapidly improved. " I 
am no longer afflicted by the cough, and mother feels it un- 
necessary now to speak to me as being ill ; though my health 
is, and probably always will be, very delicate." — "And she 
really did appear better," observes her mother, " and even I, 
who had ever been nervously alive to every symptom of her 
disease, was deluded by those favourable appearances, and 
began to entertain a hope that she might yet recover, when 
another sudden attack of bleeding at the lungs convinced us 
of the fallacy of our hopes, and warned us to take every 
measure to ward off the severity of the climate in the coming 
winter. A consultation was held between her father and our 
favourite physician, and the result was that she was to keep 
within doors. This was indeed sad, but, after an evident 
struggle with her own mind, she submitted, Vv'iih her accus- 
tomed good sense, to the decree. All that affection could 
suggest, was done, to prevent the effects of this seclusion on 
her spirits." A cheerful room was allotted to her, command- 
ing an agreeable prospect, and communicating, by folding 
doors, to a commodious parlour; the temperature of the whole 
apartment was regulated by a thermometer. Hither her 
books, writing-table, drawing implements, and fancy work 
were transported. When once established in these winter 
quarters, she Jbecame contented and cheerful. " She read 
and wrote," says her mother, "and amused herself with 
drawing and needle work. After spending as much time as 
I dare permit in the more serious studies in vvhich she was 
engaged, she would unbend her mind with one of Scott's de- 
lightful novels, or play with her kitten ; and at evening we 
were usually joined by our interesting friends, Mr. and Mrs. H. 
It is novv a melancholy satisfaction to me to believe that she 
could not, in her state of health, be happier, or more plea- 
santly situated. She was always charmed with the conver- 
sation of Mr. H., and followed him through all the mazes of 
philosophy with the greatest delight. She read Cousin wiili 
a high zest, and produced an abstract from it which gave a 
convincing proof that she understood the principles there laid 
down ; after which she gave a complete analysis of the In- 
troduction to the History of Philosophy, by ihe same author. 
Her mind must have been deeply engrossed by these studies, 



CIOGUAPIIY. 71 

yet it was not visible fr im her manner. During tills shor« 
winter she accomplished what to many would have been the 
labour of years, yet there waa no haste, no flurry; she pur- 
sued quietly her round ofor^cupations, always cheerful. The 
hours flew swiftly by ; not a moment lagged. I think she 
never spent a more happy winter than this, with all its varied 
employments." 

The following extract from a letter to one of her young 
friends, gives an idea of her course of reading during this 
winter; and how, in her precocious mmd, the playfulness of 
the child mingled v/ith the ihoughtfulness of the woman. 

" You ask me what I am reading. Alas ! book-worm as 
I am, it makes me draw a long breath to contemplate the 
books 1 have laid out for perusal. In the first place, I am 
reading Condillac's Ancient History, in French, twenty-four 
volumes; Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire 
in four large volumes. I have not finished Josephus. In 
my moments of recreation I am poring over Scott's bewitch- 
ing novels. I wish we could give them some other name 
instead of novels, for they certainly should not bear the same 
title with the thousand and one productions of that class 
daily swarming from the press. Do you think they ought] 
So pure, so pathetic, so historical, and, above all, so true to 
human nature. How beautifully he mingles the sad with 
the grotesque, in such a manner that the opposite feelings 
they excite harmonize perfectly with each other. His works 
can be read over and over again, and every time with a 
growing sense of their beauties. I3o you read French ] If 
so, I wish we could read the same works together. It would 
be a great pleasure to me at least, and our mutual remarks 
might benefit each other. Supposing you will be pleased to 
hear of my amusements, hov/ever tritiing, I will venture to 
name one, at the risk of lowering any great opinion you 
may have formed of my wisdom ! A pet kitten ! ! ! Yes, my 
dear Henrietta, a sweet little creature, with a graceful shape, 
playful temper, white breast, and dear little innocent eyes, 
which completely belie the reputed disposition of a cat. He 
is neither deceitful, ferocious, nor ungrateful, but is certainly 
the most rational being for an irrational one, I ever saw. 
He is now snugly lying in my lap, watching every move- 
ment of my pen with a quiet purr of contentment. Have 
you such a pet 3 I wish you had, that we both might pia}' 
with them at the same time, sunset, for instance, and while 
so far distant, feel that we w^ere enjoying ourselves in the 
selfsame way. You ask wliat I think of animal magnetism? 
My dear Hetty, I have not troubled my licad about it. I 
hear of it from every quarter, and m.entioned so often with 



72 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

contempt, that I have thought of it only as an absurdity 
If I understand it rightly, the leading principle is the influ- 
ence of one mind upon another; there is undoubtedly such 
an influence, to a reasonable degree, but as to throwing one 
into a magnetic sleep — presenting visions before their eyes 
of scenes passing afar off, it seems almost too ridiculous! 
Still it may be all true ! A hundred years since, what would 
have been our feelings to see what is nov»^ here so common, 
a steam engine, breathing lire and smoke, gliding along with 
the rapidity of thought, and carrying at its black heels a 
train which a hundred men would fail to move. We know^ 
not but tliis apparent absurdity, this magnetism may be a 
great and mysterious secret, which the course of time will 
reveal and adapt ^o important purposes. " * * * * 
What are you studying' Do you play] Do you draw^ ? 
Please tell me every thing. I wish 1 could form some pic- 
ture of you to my mind's. eye. H is so tormenting to cor- 
respond with a dear fiiend, and nave no likeness of them in 
our fancy. I remember every thing as it used to be, but 
time makes great changes ! Nov/ here comes my saucy 
kitten, and springs upon the table before me as if he had a 
perfect right there. ' What do you mean, little puss? Come, 
sit for your portrait !' I hope, dear H., you will fully appre- 
ciate this painting, which I consider as my chef-d'oeuvre, 
and preserve it as a faithful likeness of my inimitable cat. 
But do forgive me so much nonsense ! But I feel that to 
you 1 can rattle ofT any thing that comes uppermost. It is 
near night, and the sun is setting so beautifully after the 
long storm that I could not sit here much longer, even if I 
had a whole page to fill. How splendid the moon must 
look on the bright waters of the Champlain this night ! 
Good bye, good bye — love to all from all, and believe me, 
now as ever, 

Your sincere friend, 

Margaret." 

The following passnges from her mother's memorandums, 
touch upon matters of more solemn interest, which occasion- 
ally occupied her young mind : 

"During the whole of the preceding summer her mind 
had dwelt much upon the subject of religion. Much of her 
time was devoted to serious reflection, self-examination, and 
prayer. But she evidently shunned all conversation upon 
the subject. It was a theme she had always conversed 
upon with pleasure until nouK This not only surprised but 
pained me. I was a silent but close and anxious observer 
of the operations of her mind, and saw that, witli nil hei 
apparent cheerfulness, sh.e was ill at ease; perfect silence 



BIOGRAPHY. 73 

was however maintained on both sides until the winter 
commenced, and brought us more closely together. Then 
her young heart again reposed itself, in confiding love, upon 
the bosom that heretofore iiad shared its every thought, and 
the subject became one of daily discussion. I found lier 
mind perplexed, and her ideas confu.sed by points of doctrine 
which she could neither understand nor reconcile with her 
views of the justice and benevolence of God, as exhibited 
in the Scriptures. Her views of the divine character and 
attributes had ever been of that elevated cast, which, while 
they raised her mind above all grosser things, sublimated 
and purified iier feelings and desires, and prepared her for 
that bright and holy communion without which she could 
enjoy nothing. Her faith was of that character "which 
casteth out tear.' It was sweet and soothing to depend 
upon Jesus for salvation. It was delightful to behold, in tlie 
all-imposing majesty of God, a kind and tender father, who 
pitied her infirmities, and on whose justice and benevolence 
she could rest for time and eternity. She had, during the 
summer, heard much disputation on doctrinal points, which 
she had silently and carefully examined, and had been 
shocked at the position which many professing Christians 
had taken ; she saw much inconsistency, much bitterness 
of spirit, on points which she had been taught to consider 
not es.sential to salvation; she saw that the spirit of perse- 
cution and uncharitableness which pervaded many classes 
of Christians, had almost totally destroj^ed that bond of 
brotherhood which ought firmly to unite the followers of the 
humble Saviour; and she could not reconcile these feelings 
with her ideas of the Christian character. Her meekness 
and humility led her sometimes to doubt her own state. She 
felt that her religious duties were but too feebly performed, 
and that without divine assistance all her resolutions to be 
more faithful were vain. She oil.en said, ' Mamma, I am friv 
from right. I resolve and re-resolve, and yet remain the 
same.' I had shunned every thing that savoured of contro- 
versy, knowing her enthusiasm and extreme sensibility on 
the subject of religion; I dreaded the excitement it might 
create. But I now more fully explained, as v/ell as I was 
able, the simple and divine truths of the Gospel, and held 
up to her view the beauty and benevolence of the Father's 
character, and the unbounded love which could have devised 
the atoning sacrifice; and advised her at present to avoid 
controversial writings, and make a more thorough examina- 
tion of the Scriptures, that she might found her principles 
upon the evidences to be deduced from that ground v.'ork 
of our f:iith, unbia.s.sed by the opinions and prejudices of 
any man. I represented to her, that, young as she v/as, while 
in f^ ^'.^le health, researches into tho.se knottv and disputed 
6 '^ 



74 MISS MARGAkET DAVIDSON. 

subjects would only confuse her mind ; that there was 
enough of plain practical religion to be gathered from the 
Bible ; and urged the importance of frequent and earnest 
prayer, whicii, with God's blessing, would compose the 
agitation of her mind, which I considered as essential to 
her inward peace. 

On one occasion, while perusing Lockhart's Life of Scott 
with great interest, her mother ventured to sound her feehngs 
dpon the subject of literary fome, and asked her whether she 
had no ambition to have her name go down to posterity. She 
took her mother's hand with enthusiasm, kissed her cheek, 
and, retiring to the other room, in less than an hour returned 
with the following lines : 

TO DIE AND BE FORGOTTEN. 

A few short years will roll along, 

With mingled joy and pain, 
Then shall I pass — a broken tone ! 

An echo of a strain ! 

Then shall I fade away from life, 

Like cloud-tints from the sky, 
When the breeze sweeps their surface o'er. 

And they are lost for aye. 

The world will laugh, and weep, and sing. 

As gaily as before. 
But cold and silent I shall be — 

As I have been no more. 

The haunts I loved, the flowers I nursed 

Will bloom as sweetly still. 
But other hearts and otlier hands 

My vacant place shall fill. 

And even mighty love must fail 

To bind my memory here — 
Like fragrance round the faded rose, 

'T will perish with the year. 

The soul may look with fervent hope 

To worlds of future bliss ; 
But oh how saddening to the heart 

To be forgot in this ! 

How many a noble mind hath shrunk 

From death without a name : 
Hath look'd beyond his shadowy realm, 

And lived and died for lame. 

Could we not view the darksome grave 

With calmer, steadier eye, 
If conscious that a world's regret 

Would seek us where we lie ? 



BIOGRAPHY. 

Faith points, with mild confiding glance, 

To realms of bliss above, 
Where peace, and joy, and justice reign, 

And never-dying love I 

But still our earthly feelings cling 
Around this bounded spot ;-;- 

There is a something burns within 
Which will not be forgot. 

Il cares not for a gorgeous hearse, 
For waving torch and plume ; 

For pealing hymn, funereal verse, 
Or richly sculptured tomb ; 

But it would live, undimm'd and fresh, 
When flickering hie departs ; 

Would find a pure and honour'd grave. 
Embalm' d in kindred hearts. 

Who would not brave a life of tears 

To win an honour'd name ? 
One sweet and heart-awakening tone 

From the silver trump of fame ? 

To be, when countless years have past, 
The good man's glowing theme '' 

To be — but I — what right have I 
To this bewildering dream ? 

Oh, it is vain, and worse than vain. 
To dwell on thoughts like these ; 

/, a frail child, whose feeble frame 
Already knows disease ! 

Who, ere another spring may dawn, 

Another summer bloom, 
May, like the flowers of autumn, lie 

A tenant of the tomb. 

Away, away, presumptuous thought, 

I will not dwell on thee ! 
For what, alas I am I to fame. 

And what is fame to me? 

Let all these wild and longing thoughts 
With the dying year expire. 

And I will nurse within my breast 
A purer, holier fire ! 

Yes, I will seek my mind to win 
From all these dreams of strife. 

And toil to write my name within 
The glorious book of hfe. 

Then shall old Time, who, rolling on, 
Impels me towards the tomb. 

Prepare for me a glorious crown, 
I'hrough endless years to bloom. 



December, 1337. 



70 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The confinement to the house, in a graduated temperature, 
the round of cheerful occupations, and the unremitting care 
taken of her, produced a visible melioration of her symptoms. 
Her cough gradually subsided, the morbid irritability of her 
system, producing often an unnatural flow of spirits, was 
quieted ; as usual, she looked forward to spring as the genial 
and delightful season that was to restore her to perfect health 
and freedom. 

Christmas was approaching, which had ever been a time 
of social enjoyment in the family; as it drew near, however, 
the remembrance of those lost from the fireside circle was 
painfully felt by Mrs. Davidson. Margaret saw the gloom on 
her mother's brow, and kissing her, exclaimed, "Dear mo. 
ther, do not let us waste our present happiness in useless re- 
pining. You see I am well, and you are more comfortable, 
and dear father is in good ^health and spirits. Let us enjoy 
the present hour, and banish vain regrets!" Having given 
this wholesome advice, she tripped off vvith a light step to pre- 
pare Christmas presents for the servants, which were to be 
distributed by St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, in the old tradi- 
tional way. Every animated being, rational or irrati'ona!, 
must share her liberality on that day of festivity and joy. 
Her Jenny, a little bay pony on which she had taken many 
healthful and delightful rides, must have a gayer blanket, and 
an extra allowance of oats. "On Christmas morning," says 
her mother, "she woke with the first sound of the old house- 
clock striking the hour of five, and twining her arms around 
my neck, (for during this winter she shared my bed,) and, 
kissing me again and again, exclaimed — 

' Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 
The golden sun is dawning!' 

then Slipping a piece of paper into my hand, she sprang out 
of bed, and danced about the carpet, her kitten in her arms, 
with all the sportive glee of childhood. When I gazed upon 
her young face, so bright, so animated, and beautiful, beaming 
with innocence and love, and thought that perhaps this was 
the last anniversary of her Saviour's birth she might spend 
on earth, 1 could not suppress my em^otions : I caught her to 
my bosom in an agony of tenderness, while she, all uncon- 
scious of the nature of my feelings, returned my caresses 
with playful fondness." The following verses were contained 
in the above-mentioned paper: 



BIOGRAPHY. 77 



TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 

Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 

The golden sun is dawning ! 
Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 

This happy Christmas morning ! 

Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow, 
Each lip is laughing merrily ; 

A smile hath pass'd o'er winter's brow, 
And the very snow looks cheerily. 

Hark to the voice of the waken' d day, 
To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing, 

While a thousand, thousand happy hearts 
Their Christmas lays are singing. 

'T is a joyous hour of mirth and love, 
And my heart is overflowing ! 

Come, let ns raise our thoughts above, 
While pure, and fresh, and glowmg. 

'T is the happiest day of the roUing year, 
But it comes in a robe of mourning 

Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here 
Its Tcy shroud adorning. 

It comes when all around is dark, 

'Tis meet it so should be, 
For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, 

The spirit's jubilee. 

It does not need the bloom of spring, 
Or summer's light and gladness, 

For love has spread her beaming wing 
O'er winter's brow of sadness. 

' Twas thus he came, beneath a cloud 
His spirit's light concealing. 

No crown of earth, no kingly robe 
His heavenly power revealing. 

His soul was pure, his mission love, 
His aim a world's redeeming ; 

To raise the darken'd soul above 
Its wild and sinful dreaming. 

With all his Father's power and love 
The cords of guilt to sever ; 

To ope a sacred fount of light. 
Which flows, shall flow for ever. 

Then we shall hail the glorious day, 

The spirit's new creation. 
And pour our grateful feelings forth, 

A pure and warm libation. 

Wake, mother, wake to chasten'd joy. 
The golden sun is dawning ! 

Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 
This happy Christmas morning. 



78 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" The last day of the year 1837 arrived. ' Mamma,' said 
she, 'will you sit up with me to-night until after twelve?' I 
looked inquiringly. She replied, ' 1 wish to bid farewell to 
the present, and to welcome the coming year.' After the 
family retired, and we had seated ourselves by a cheerful fire 
to spend the hours which would intervene until the year 1838 
should dawn upon us, she was serious, but not sad, and as if 
she had nothing more than usual upon her mind, took some litrht 
sewing in her hand, and so interested me by her conversation, 
that I scarcely noticed the flight of time. At half past eleven 
she handed me a book, pointing to some interesting article to 
amuse me, then took her seat at the writing-tabie, and com- 
posed the piece on the departure of the old year 1837, and 
the commencement of the new one 1838. When she had 
finished the Farewell, except the last verse, it wanted a iew 
minutes of twelve. She nested her arms in silence upon the 

table, apparently absorbed in meditation. The clock struck 

a sort of deep thought passed over her expressive face — she 
remained solemn and silent until tl^e last tone had ceased to 
vibrate, when she again resumed her pen and wrote, ' The 
bell ! it hath ceased.' When the clock struck, I arose from 
my seat and stood leaning over tlie back of her chair, with a 
mind deeply solemnized by a scene so new and interesting. 
The words flowed rapidly from her pen, without haste or con- 
fusion, and at one o'clock we were quietly in bed." 

We again subjoin the poem alluded to, trusting that these 
efilisions, which are so intimately connected with her personal 
history, will be read with greater interest, when given in con- 
junction with the scenes and circumstances which prompted 
them. ^ 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1837, AND THE 
COMMENCEMENT OF 1838. 

Hark to the house-clock's measured chime, 

As it cries to the startled ear, 
"A dirge for the soul of departing time, 

A requiem for the year." 

Thou art passing away to the mighty past, 

Where thy countless brethren^sleep, 
Till the great Archangel's trumpet-blast, 

Shall waken land and deep. 

Oh the lovely and beautiful things that lie 

On thy cold and motionless breast ! 
Oh the tears, the rejoicings, the smiles, the si^ha, 

Departing with thee to their rest. " 



BIOGRAPHY. "7^ 

Thou wert usher' d to hfe amid darkness and gloom, 

But the cold icy cloud pass' d away, 
And sprino-, in her verdure, and Ireshness, and bloom, 

Touch' d with glory thy mantle oi gray. 

The flow'rets burst forth in their beauty— the trees 

In their exquisite robes were array d, 
But thou glidedst along, and the flower and the leat, 

At the sound of thy footsteps, decay d. 

And fairer young blossoms were blooming alone, 

And they died at the glance of thme eye. 
But a hfe was within which should rise o er thme own 

And a spirit thou couldst not destroy. 

Thou hast folded thy pinions, thy race is complete, 
And fulfiU'd the Creator's behest, . 

Then, adieu to thee, year of our sorrows and joys, 
And peaceful and long be thy rest. 

Farewell '. for thy truth-written record is full, 
And the page weeps, for sorrow and crmie ; 

Farewell I for the leaf hath shut down on the past, 
And conceal'd the dark annals of tmie. 



The bell ! it hath ceased with its iron tongue 
To ring on the startled ear. 

The dirge o'er the grave of the lost one is rung- 
All hail to the new-born year ! 

All hail to the new-born year ! 

To the child of hope and fear ! 

He comes on his car of state, 

And weaves our web of fate, 
And he opens his robe to receive us all, 
And we live or die, and we rise or tall, 

In the arms of the new-born year ! 

Hope ! spread thy soaring wings ! 

Look forth on the boundless sea, _ 
And trace thy bright and beautiful things 

On the veil of the great To Be. 

Build palaces broad as the sky. 

And store them with treasures ot light, 

Let exquisite visions bewilder the eye. 
And illumine the darkness of night. 

We are gliding fast from the buried year, 

And the present is no more, 
But hope, we will borrow thy sparkhng gear, 

And shroud the future o'er. 

Our tears and sighs shall sleep 
In the grave of the silent past ; 

We will raise up flowers— nor weep 
That the air hues may not last. 



80 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

We will dream our dreams of joy, 

^Ah, lear ! why darken the scene ? 
Why sprinkle that ominous tear, 

My beautiful visions between ? 

Hath not sorrow swift wings of her own, 

That thou must assist in her flight? 
Is^not daylight too rapidly gone, 

That thou must urge onward the night ? 

Ah ! leave me to fancy, to hope, 

For grief will too quickly be here ; 
Ah ! leave me to shadow iorth figures of light, 

In the mystical robe of the year. 

'Tis true, they may never assume 

The substance of pleasure, — the real, — 

But believe me, our purest of joy 
Consists in the vague — the ideal. 

Then away to the darksome cave, 

With thy sisters, the sigh and the tear, 

We will drink, in the crystal wave, 
To the health of the new-born year. 

' She had been for some time thinking of a subject for a 
poem, and the next day, wliich was the first of January, came 
to me m great perplexity and asked mv advice. I had loner 
desired that she would direct her attention to the beautiful and 
sublime narratives of the Old Testament, and now proposed 
that she should take the Bible and examine it with that view. 
After an hour or two spent in research, she remarked that 
there were many, very many subjects of deep and thrillin^^ 
interest; but if she now should make a failure, her discou"! 
ragement would be such as to prevent her from ever makinn- 
another attempt. ' I am now,' she said, ' trying my win^s ; I 
will take a lighter subject at first: if I succeed,^! wilTthen 
write a more perfect poem, founded upon Sacred History.'" 

She accordingly took as a theme a prose tale, in a current 
work of the day, and wrote several pages with a flowing pen, 
but soon threw them by dissatisfied. It was irksome to 
employ the thoughts and fancies of another, and to have to 
adapt her own to the plan of the author. She wanted some- 
thing original. " After some farther effort," says Mrs. Da- 
vidson, " she came to me out of spirits and in tears. ' Mother ' 
said she, ' I must give it up after all.' I asked the reason, and 
then remarked that as she had already so many labours upon 
lier hands, and was still feeble, it might be the wisest course. 
' Oh mother,' said she, ' that is not the reason ; my head and 
my heart are full : poetic images are crowding upon mv brain, 



BIOGRAPHY. 81 

but every subject has been monopolised: "there is noihing 
new under the sun."' I said, 'My daughter, that others 
have written upon a subject is not an objection. The most 
eminent writers do not always choose what is new.' 'Mo- 
ther, dear mother, what can 1 say upon a theme which has 
been touched by the greatest men of this or some other age? 
I, a mere child ; it is absurd in me to think of it.' She 
dropped beside me on the sofa, laid her head upon my bosom, 
and sobbed violently. I wiped the tears from her face, while 
my own were fast flowing, and strove to soothe the tumult of 
her mind. * * * When we were both more calm, I said, 
' Margaret, I had hoped that during this winter you would not 
have commenced or applied yourself to any important work ; 
but if you feel in that way, 1 will not urge you to resign an 
occupation which gives you such exquisite enjoyment.' " 

Mrs. Davidson then went on to show to her that, notv/ith- 
standing the number of poets that had written, the themes and 
materials for poetry are inexhaustible. By degrees Margaret 
became composed, took up a book and read. The words of 
her mother dwelt in her mind. In a few days she brought 
her mother the introduction to a projected poem to be called 
Lenorc. Mrs. Davidson was touched at finding the remarks 
she had made for the purpose of soothing the agitation of her 
daughter had served to kindle her imagination, find were 
poured forth with eloquence in those verses. The excitement 
continued, and the poem of Lenore was completed, corrected, 
and copied into her book by the first of March ; having writ- 
ten her plan in prose at full length, containing about the same 
number of lines as the poem. " During its progress," says 
Mrs. Davidson, " w^hen, fatigued with writing, she would take 
her kitten, and recline upon her sofa, asking me to relate to 
her some of the scenes of the last war. Accordingly, I would 
while away our solitude by repeating anecdotes of that period ; 
and before Lenore was completed she had advanced several 
pages in a prose tale, the scene of which was laid upon Lake 
Champlain during the last war. She at the same time exe- 
cuted faces and figures in crayon, which would not have dis- 
graced the pencil of an artist. Her labours were truly im- 
mense. Yet a stranger coming occasionally to the house 
would hardly observe that she had any pressing avoca- 
tions." 

The following are extracts from a rough draught of a letter 
written to Miss Sedgwick about this time. 



82 I\IISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

' My dear Madam, 

"I wish I could express to you my pleasure on receiving 
your kind and afi'ectionate letter. So far irom considering 
'myself neglected by your silence, I ielt it a gretit privilege 
to be permitted to write to you. and knew that I ougiit not 
to expect a regular answer to every letter, even while I was 
longing, day alter day, to receive this gratifying token of 
remeni^brance. Unless you had witnessed, I fear you would 
hardly believe my extravagant delight on reading the dear 
little folded paper, so expressive of your kind recollection. 
I positively danced for joy ; bestowed a thousand caresses 
upon every body and every thing I loved, dreamed of you 
all night, and arose next morning (with a heart full,) to 
answer your letter, but w^as prevented by indisposition, and 
have not been able until now to perform a most pleasing 
duty by acknowledging its receipt. My health during the 
past winter has been much better than we had anticipated. 
It is true I have been with dear mother, entirely confined 
to the house, but being able to read, write, and perform all 
n]y usual employments, I feel that I have much more reason 
to be thankful for the blessings continued to me, than to 
repine because a few have been denied. But spring is now 
here in name, if not in reality, and I can assure you my 
heart bounds at the thought of once more escaping from 
my confinement, and breathing the pure air of Heaven, 
without fearing a blight or consumption in every breeze. 
Spring! What pleasure does that magic syllable convey to 
the heart of an invalid, laden with sweet promises, and 
bringing before his mind visions of liberty, which those who 
are always free cannot enjoy .^ Thus do 1 dream of summer, 
1 may never see, and make myself happy for hours in 
anticipating pleasures I may never share. It is an idle 
employment, and little calculated to sweeten disappoint- 
ment. But it has opened to me many sources of delight 
othervv^ise unknown; and when out of humour with the 
present, I have only to send fancy fiower-gathering in the 
future, and I find myself fully repaid. Dear mother's health 
has also been much better than we had feared, and her ill 
turns less frequent and severe. She sits up most of the 
day, walks around the lower part of the house, and enjoys 
her book and her pen as much as ever. * * * * *- * You 
speak of your intercourse with Mrs. Jameson. It must 
indeed be an exquisite pleasure to be intimately associated 
with a mind like hers. I have never seen any thing but 
extracts from her writings, but must obtain and read them. 
I suppose the world is anxiously looking for her next volume. 
* * * We have been reading Lockliart's Life of Scott. Is 
it not a deeply interesting work? In what a beautiful light 
it represents the character of that great and good man 



BIOGRAPHY. R3 

No one can read his life or his works without loving and 
venerating him. As to 'the waters of Helicon' we have but 
a few niggardly streams in this, our matter-of-fact village; 
and father in his medical capacity has forbidden my par- 
taking of them as freely as 1 could wish. But no matter, 
they have been frozen up, and will flow in ' streams more 
salubrious ' beneath the milder sky of spring." 

In all her letters we find a solicitude about her mother's 
health, rather than about her own, and indeed it was difficult 
to soy which was most precarious. 

The following extract from a poem written about this time 
to " Her Mother on her fiftieth Birthday" presents a beautiful 
portrait, and does honour to the fdial hand that drew it. 

Yes, mother, fifty years have fled 
With rapid footsteps o'er thy kead ; 
Have past wiih all their motley train, 
And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
How many smiles and sishs and tears, 
How many hopes and doubis and fears 
Have vanish' d with that lapse of years. 

Oh that wc all could look like thee, 
Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
And 'mid its varied records find 
A heart at ease with all mankind, 
A firm and self-approving mind — 
Grief that had broken hearts less fine 
Hath only served to strengthen thine. 

Time that doth chill the fancy's play 
Hath kindled thine Vv'ith purer ray : 
And stern disease, wlmse icy dart 
Hath power to chill the breaking heart, 
Hath left thine warm with love and truth. 
As in the halcyon days of youth. 

The following letter was written on the 26th of March, to 
a female cousin resident in New York. 

"Dear Kate: This day I am fifleen, and you can, you 
will, readily pardon and account for the absurd flights of 
my pen, by supposing that my tutelary spirits, nonsense 
and folly, have assembled around the being of their crea- 
tion, and claimed the day as exclusively their own ; then I 
pray you to lay to their account all that I have already 
scribbled, and believe that, uninfluenced by these grinning 
deities, I can think and feel, and love, as I love you with all 
warmth and sincerity of heart. Do you remember how 
we used to look forward to sweet fifteen as the pinnacle of 
human happiness, the golden age of existence] You have 
but lately passed that milestone in the highv/ay of life; I 
have just reached it, but I find myself no better satisfied to 



>»^ MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

stand still than before, and look forward to the continuance 
of my journey with the same ardent ionging I felt at fourteen. 
" Ah, Kate, here we are, two young travellers starting 
forth upon our long pilgrimage, and knowing not whither 
it may conduct us ! Yoli some months my superior in age, 
and many years in acquaintance with society, in external 
attractions, and all those accomplishments necessary to 
form an elegant woman. /, knowing nothing of life but 
from books, and a small circle of friends, who love me as I 
love them ; looking upon the past as a faded dream, which 
J shall have time enough to study and expound when old 
age and sorrow come on; upon the present as a nursling, 
a preparative for the future; and upon that future, as what ' 
a mighty whirlpool, of hopes and tears, of bright anticipa- 
tions and bitter disappointments, into which I shall soon 
plunge, and find there, in common with the rest of the 
world, my happiness or misery." * * * 

The following to a young friend, was also written on the 
26th of xMarch. 

" My Dear H. : You must know that winter has come, 
and gone, and neither mother nor myself have felt a single 
breeze which could not force its way through the thick 
walls of our little dwelling. Do you not think I am looking 
gladly forward to April and May, as the lovely sisters who 
are to unlock the doors of our prison house, and give us 
once more to the free enjoyment of nature, without fearing 
a blight or a consumption in every breath] And now for 
another, and even more delightful anticipation -your visit ! 
Are you indeed coming I And when are you coming ] Do 
answer the first, that I may for once have the pleasure of 
framing delightful visions without finding them dashed to 
the ground by the iron hand of reality; and the last, that I 
may not expect you too soon, and thus subject myself to 
all the bitterness of " hope deferred." Come, for I have so 
much to say to you, that I cannot possibly contain it until 
summer ; and come quickly, unless you are willing to 
account for my wasted time as well as your ov/n, for I shall 
do little else but dream of you and your visit until the time 
of your arrival. You cannot imagine how those few words 
in your little good for nothing letter have completely upset 
my wonted gravity. Do not disappoint me. It is true, 
mother and I are both feeble and unable to go out with you 
and show you the lions of our little village ; but if warm 
welcomes can atone for the want of ceremony, you shall 
have them in abundance : but it seems to me that I shall 
want to pin you down in a chair, and do nothing but look 
at you from morning till night. As to coming to Platts- 
burgh, I think if we cannot do so in the spring, (which i.s 



BIOGRAPHY. 85 

doubtful.) we certainly shall in the course of the summer. 
Brother M. wrote to me yesterday, saying that he would 
spend the montii of August in the country, and if nothing 
occurred to prevent, we would take our delightful trip by 
the way of Lake George. Oh it will be so pleasant ! But 
my anticipations are now all bent upon a nearer object. 
Do not allow a slight impediment to destroy them. We 
expect in May to move to Saratoga. We shall then have 
a more convenient house, better society, and the benefit of 
a school in v*'hich 1 can practise music and drawing, without 
being obliged to attend regularly. We shall then be a few 
miles nearer to you, and at present that seems something 
desirable to me. I have read and own three volumes of 
Scott's life, and was much disappointed to find that it was 
not finished in these three, but concluded the remainder had 
not yet come out. Are the five volumes all "? it is indeed a 
deeply interesting work. I am very fond of biography, for 
surely there can be nothing more delightful or instructive 
than to trace in the infancy and youth of every noble mind 
the germs of its future greatness. Have you read a work 
called Letters from Palmyra, by Mr. Ware of New Yorki 
1 have not yet seen it, but intend to do so soon. It is writ- 
ten in the character of a citizen of Rome at that early 
period, and it is said to be a lively picture of the manners 
an.d customs of the imperial city, and still more of the 
magnificence of Palmyra, and its splendid queen Zenobia. 
It also contains a beautiful story. I have lately been re- 
perusing many of Scott's novels, and intend to finish them. 
Was ever any thing half so fascinating I Oh how I long to 
have you here and tell you all these little things in person. 
Do write to me immediately, and tell me when we may 
expect you ; I shall open your next with a beating heart. 
Do excuse all the blunders and scrawls of this hasty letter. 
You must receive it as a proof of friendship, for to a stran- 
ger, or one who I thought would look upon it with a cold 
and critical eye, I certainly should not send it. I believe 
you and I have entered into a tacit agreement to forgive 
any little mistakes, which the other may chance to commit. 
Croyez moi ma chore amie votre 

MARGUERrrE." 

The spirits of this most sensitive little be'ing became more 
and more excited with the opening of spring. " She watched," 
says her mother, " the putting forth of the tender grass and 
the young blossoms as the period which was to liberate her 
from captivity. She was pleased with every body and every 
thing. She loved every thing in nature, both animate and 
inanimate, with a warmth of afTf3ctinn udiich displayed the 



3G MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

benevolence of her own heart. She felt that she was well, 
and oh ! the bright dreams and imaginings the cloudless future 
presented to her ardent mind — all was sunny and gay." 

The following letter is highly expressive of the state of iier 
feelings at that period. 

" A few days since, my dearest cousin, I received your 
affectionate letter, and if my heart smote me at the sight 
of the well-known superscription, you may imagine how 
unmercifully it thumped on reading a letter so full of affec- 
tion, and so entirely devoid of reproach for my unkindly 
negligence. I can assure you, m)^ dear coz, you could have 
no'better way of striking home to my heart the conviction 
of my error; and I resolved that hour, that moment, to lay- 
ray confessions at your feet, and sue for forgiveness; I 
knew you were too gentle to refuse. But alas ! for human 
resolves! We were that afternoon expecting brother M. 
Dear brother ! And how could 1 collect my floating thoughts 
and curl myself up into a corner wdth pen, ink and paper 
before me, when my heart was flying away over the sand- 
hills of this unromantic region, to meet and embrace and 
welcome home the wanderer ] If it can interest you, picture 
to yourself the little scene : Mother and 1 breathless with 
expectation, gazing from the v.-indow, in mute suspense, 
and listening'to the 'phiz, jjhiz,' of the great steam-engine. 
Then when we caught a rapid glance of his trim little figure, 
hov/ we bounded away over chairs, sofas, and kittens, to 
bestow in reality the greeting fancy had so often given him. 
Oh ! what is so delightful as to welcome a friend ! Well, 
three days have passed like a dream, and he is gone again. 
I am seated at my little table by the fire. Mother is sewing 
beside m.e. Puss is slumbering on the hearth, and nothing 
external remains to convince us of the truth of that bright 
sunbeam which had suddenly broken upon our quiet retreat, 
and departed like a vision as suddenly. When shall we 
have tlie pleasure of welcoming you thus, my beloved cou- 
sin? Your flying call of last summer was but an aggrava- 
tion. Oh! may all good angels watch over you and all you 
love, shake the dew of health from their balmy wings upon 
your smiling home, and waft you hither, cheerfi.il and happy, 
to sojourn awhile with the friends w^ho love you so dearly ! 
All hail to spring, the bright, the blooming, the renovating 
spring ! Oh ! I am so happy — I feel a lightness at my heart, 
and a vigour in my frame that I have rarely felt. ]f 1 speak 
my voice forms itself into a laugh. If I look forward, every 
thing seems bright before me. ff I look back, memory calls 
up what is pleasant, and my greatest desire is that my pen 
could fling a ray of sunshine ov^er this scribbled page, ana 
infuse into your heart some of the cheerfulness of my own. 



BIOGRAPHY. 87 

I have been confined to the house a]] winter, as it was 
thought the best and only way of restoring my health. Now 
my sjniiptoms are all better, and I am looking forward to 
next nonth and its blue skies with the most childish impa- 
tience. By the way, I am not to be called a child any more; 
for yr sterday I was fifteen, what say you to that ] I feel 
quite ike an old woman, and think of putting on caps and 
spee?f,cles next month." 

It v/as during the same exuberance of happy feeling, with 
the (elusive idea of confirmed heahh, and the aniicipation of 
bright enjoyments, that she broke forth like a bird into the 
following strain of melody. 

Oh, my bosom is throbbing with joy, 

With a rapture too full to express ; 
From within and wiiiiout I am blest, 

And the world, like myself, I would bless. 

All nature looks fair to my eye, 

From bennath and around and above, 
Hope smiles in the clear azure sky, 

And the broad earth is glowing with love. 

"I stand on the threshold of life, 

On the shore of its wide-rolling sea, 
I have heard of its storms and its strife, 

But all things are tranquil to me. 

There 's a veil o'er the future — 't is bright 

As the wing of a spirit of air, 
Arid each form of enchantment and light 

Is trembling in Iris hues there. 

I turn to the world of affection, 

And warm, glowing treasures are mine ; 

To the past, and my ibnd recollection 
Gathers roses from memory's shrine. 

But oh, there's a fountain of joy 

More rich than a kingdom beside ; 
It is holy — death cannot destroy 

The flow of its heavenly tide. 

'Tis the love that is gushing within — 

It would bathe the whole world in its light 

The cold stream of liine shall not quench, 
The dark frown of woe shall not blight. 

These visions of pleasure may vanish, 
These bright dreams of youth disappear 

Disappointment each air hue may banish, 
And drown each frail joy in a tear. 

I may plunge in the billows of life, 

I may taste of its dark cup of woe, 
1 may weep, and the sad drops of grief 

May blend with the waves as they flow 



88 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

I may dream, till reality's shadow 

O'er the light form of fancy is cast ; 
I may hope, until hope, too, despairing 

Has crept — to the grave of the past. 

But though the wild waters surround me, 

Pvlisfortune, temptation, and sin, 
Though fear be about and beyond me, 

And sorrow's dark shadow within ; 

Though age, with an icy-cold finger, 

May stamp his pale seal on my brow 
Still, still in my bosom shall linger 

The glow that is warming it now. 

Youth will vanish, and pleasure, gay charmer, 

May depart on the wings of to-day. 
But that spot in my heart shall grow warmer. 

As year after year rolls away. 

" While her spirits were thus light and gfiy," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " from the prospect of returning heahh, my more 
mature judgment told me that those appearances might be 
deceptive — that even now the destroyer might be making sure 
his work of destruction ; but she really seemed better, the 
cough had subsided, her step v/as buoyant, her face glowed 
with animation, her eye was bright, and love, boundless, uni- 
versal love, seemed to fill her young heart. Every symptom 
of her disease assumed a more favourable cast. Oh how my 
heart sv^elled with tiie mingled emotions of hope, doubt, and 
gratitude! Our hopes of her ultimate recovery seemed to be 
founded upon reason, yet her father still doubted the propriety 
of our return to Lake Champlain ; and as Saratoga held out 
many more advantages than Ballston as a temporary resi- 
dence, he decided to spend the ensuing year or two there; 
and then we might perhaps, without much risk, return to our 
much-loved and long-deserted home on the banks of the 
Saranac. Accordingly a house was taken, and every prepa- 
ration made for our removal to Saratoga on the first of May. 
Margaret was pleased with the arrangement." 

The following playful extract of a letter to her brother in 
New York, exhibits her feelings on the prospect of their 
change of residence : 

"I now most humbly avail myself of your most gracious 
permission to scribble you a few lines in token of my ever- 
lasting love. ' This is to inform you I am very well, hoping 
these few lines will find you in possession of the same bless- 
ing' — notwithstanding the blue streaks that flitted over your 
pathway a few days after you left us. Perhaps it was occa- 



BIOGRAPHY. 89 

sioned by remorse, at the cruelty of your parting speech ; 
perhaps it was the rellection of a bright blue eye, upon the 
deep waters of your soul; but let the cause be what it may, 
' black spirits or white, blue spirits or grey,' 1 hope the effect 
has entirely disappeared, and you are no longer tinged with 
its most doleful shadow. A blue sky, a blue eye, or the blue 
dye of the violet, are all undeniably beautiful, but this tint 
when transferred from the woi'ks oi" nature to the brow of 
man, or the stockings of woman, becoiiies a thing to ridicule 
or weep at. May yoiu' spirits henceforth, my dear brother, 
be preserved from this ill-omened iniluence, and may your 
feet and ankles never be graced with garments of a hue so 
repulsive. Oh, brother, vv^e are all in the heat of moving ; 
we, i say — you will account for the use of that personal 
pronoun on the authority of the old proverb, 'What a dust 
we files raise,' for, to be frank with 5^ou, I have little or no- 
thing to do with it, but poor mother is over head and ears 
in boxes, bedclothes, carpets, straw and discussions. Our 
hall is already filled with the fruits of her labours and per- 
severance, in the shape of certain blue chests, carpet cases, 
trunks, boxes, &c., all ready for a move. Dear mother is 
head, hands, and feet for the v/hole machine; our iivo helps 
being nothing but cranks, which turn when you touch them, 
and cease their rotary movement when the force is with- 
drawn, lieigho! Vve miss our good C , with her quick 

invention and hopeful hand. * '•" * * * Oh, my dear brother, 
1 am anticipating so much pleasure next suinmer, I hope it 
will not all prove a dream. It will be so delightful when 

you come up in August and bring cousin K with you ; 

tell her I am calculating upon this pleasure with all my 
powers of fore-enjoyment — tell her also, that I am waiting- 
most impatiently for that annihilating letter of hers, and if 
it does not come soon, I shall send her another cannonade, 
ere she has recovered the stunning effects of the first. Oh 
dear! I have written a 'most disunderstandable letter, and 
nov/ you must excuse me, as I have declared war against 

M , and after mending my pen, must collect all my scat- 

'tered ideas into a fleet, and launch them for a combat upon 
a whole sea of ink." 

" The exuberance of her spirits," says her mother, " as the 
spring advanced, and she was enabled once more to take exer- 
cise in the open air, displayed itself in every thing. Her 
heart was overflowing with thankfulness and love. Every 
fine day in the latter part of April, she either rode on horse- 
back or drove out in a carriage. All nature looked lovely to 
her, not a tree or shrub but conveyed some poetical image or 
moral lesson to her mind. The moment, however, that she 



90 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

began to take daily exercise in the open air, I again heard 
with agony the prophetic cough. I felt that all was over ! 
ShQ thought that she had taken cold, and our friends were of 
the same opinion. 'It was a slight cold which would vanish 
beneath the mild influence of spring.' I, however, feared 
that her father's hopes might have blinded his judgment, and 
upon my own responsibility consulted a skilful physician, who 
had on many Ibrmer occasions attended her. She was not 
aware of fTiy present alarm, or that the physician was now 
consulted. He managed in a playful manner to feel her 
pulse, without her suspicions. After he had left the room, 

* Madam,' said he, ' it is useless to hold out any false hopes ; 
your daughter has a seated consumption, which is, I fear, 
beyond the reacli of medical skill. There is no hope in the 
case; make her as happy and as comfortable as you can ; 
let her enjoy riding in pleasant weather, but her walks must 
be given up; walking is too great an exertion for her.' With 
an aching heart I returned to the lovely unconscious victim, 
and found her tying on her hat for a ramble. I gently tried 
to dissuade her from going. She caught my eye, and read 
there a tale of grief, which she could not understand, and I 
could not explain. As soon as I dared trust my voice, I said, 
' My dear Margaret, nothing has happened, only I have just 

been spct^king with Dr. , respecting you, and he advises 

that you give up walking altogether. Knowing how much 
you enjoy it, I am pained to mention this, for I know that it 
will be a great privation.' ' Why, mamma,' she exclaimed, 

* this cold is wearing off, may I not walk then V • The Doctor 
thinks you should make no exertion of that kind, but riding 
in fine weather may have a happy effect.' She stood and 
gazed upon my face long and earnestly ; then untied her hat 
and sat down, apparently ruminating upon what had past ; 
she asked no questions, but an expression of thoughtfulness 
clouded her brow during the rest of the day. It was settled 
that she was to ride out in fine weather, but not to walk out 
at all, and in a day or two she seemed to have forgotten the 
circumstance altogether. The return of the cough, and pro- 
fuse night perspirations, too plainly told me her doom, but I 
still clung to the hope, that, as she sufl^ered no pain, she 
might, by tender judicious treatment, continue yet for years. 
I urged her to remit her labours ; she saw how much rriy 
heart was in the request, and promised to comply with my 
wishes. On the first of May we removed to Saratoga. One 



BIOGRAPHY. 91 

short half hour in the railroad-car completed the journey, and 
she arrived fresh, cheerful, and blooming in her appearance, 
such an effect had the excitement of pleasure upon her lovely 
lace." 

On the day we left Ballston she wrote a "Parting Word" 
to Mrs. H., who had been one of our most intimate and af- 
fectionate visitors throughout the winter, and whose husband 
had assisted her much in her studies of moral philosophy, 
as well as delighted her by his varied and instructive con- 
versation. 

A PARTING WORD TO MY DEAR MRS. H. 

Ballston Spa, April 30, 1838 

At length the awful morn hath come, 

I'ho parting hour is nigh, 
And I sit down 'mid dust and gloom, 

To bid you brief "good-bye." 

Each voice to fancy's listening ear 

Repeats the doleful cry, 
And the bare walls and sanded floor 

Re-echo back "good-bye." 

So must it be ; but many a thought 

Comes crowding on ray mind, 
Of the dear friends, the happy hours, 

The joys we leave behind. 

How we shall miss your cheerful face, 

For ever bright and smiHng, 
And your sweet voice, so often heard, 

Our weary hours beguiling! 

How shall we miss the Idndly hearts, 

Which none can know unloving, 
Whose thoughts and feelings none can read, 

Nor find his own improving ! 

And he, whose converse, hour by hour, 

Hath lent old Time new pinions, 
Whose hand hath drawn the shadowy veil 

From wisdom's broad dominions ; 

Whose voice hath poured forth priceless gem? 

Scarce conscious that he taught, 
Whose mind of broad, of loftiest reach, 

Hath shower' d down thought on thought. 

True, we may meet with many a dear 

And cherish'd friend, but yet 
Oft shall we cast a backward glance 

Of wistful, vain regret. 

When evening spreads her sombre veil. 

To fold the slumbering earth, 
When our small circle close-s round 

The humble, social hearth 



03 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSOxN 

Oft shall \vc dream of Hours gone by 

And con ihese moments o'er, 
Till we half bend our ears to catch 

Your footsteps at I he door, 
And then turn back and sigh to think 

We hear those steps no more ! 

But though these dismal thoughts arise 

Hope makes me happy still ; 
There is a drop of comfort lurks 

In every draught of ill ! 

By pain and care each joy of earth 

?4ore exquisite is made, 
And when we meet, the parting grief 

Shall doubly be o'erpaid. 

In disappointments deep too quick 

Our fairest prospects drown, 
Let not this hope, which blooms so bright. 

Be wither'd at his frown ! 

Come, and a mother's pallid cheek 

Shall brighten at your smile, 
And her poor frame, so faint and v/eak, 

Forget its pains the while. 

Come, and a glad and happy heart 

Shall give the welcome kiss, 
And puss shall purr, and frisk, and mew. 

In token of her bhss. 

Come ! and behold how I improve 

In dusting — cleaning — sweeping; 
And I will hear, with patient ear. 

Your lectures on housekeeping. 

And now, may all good angels guard 

Your path where'er it lie ; 
May peace reign monarch in your breast, 

And gladness in your eye. 

And may the dews of health descend 

On him you cherish best. 
To his worn frame their influence lend, 

And calm each nerve to rest ! 

And may we meet again, nor feel 

The parting hour so nigh — 
Peace, love, and happiness to all. 

Once more — once more, "good-bye!" 

•* She interested herself," continued Mrs. Davidson, " more 
than I had anticipated in the arrangement of our new habita- 
tion, and in forniing y)lans of future enjoyment with our 
friends when they should visit us; I exerted myself to please 
her taste in every thing, although she was prohibited from 
making the slightest physical exertion herself. The house 



BIOGRAPHY. 93 

settled, then came the flower-garden, in which she spent more 
time than I thought prudent; but she was so happy while 
thus engaged, and the weather being fine, and the gardener 
disposed to gratify and carry all her little plans into eflect, 1, 
like a weak mother, wanted resolution to interfere, and have 
always reproached myself for it, although not conscious that 
it was an injury at the time. Her brother had invited her to 
return to New York with him when he came to visit us in 
June, and she was now impatiently counting the days until 
his arrival. Her feelings are portrayed in a letter to her 
young friend H." 

"Saratoga, June! . 1838. 

"June is at last vAth us, my dear cousin, and the blue- 
eyed goddess could not have looked upon the green bosom 
of her mother earth attired in a lovelier or more enchanting 
robe. I am seated by an open windov/, and the breeze, 
laden with the perfumes of the blossoms and opening leaves, 
just lifts the edge of my sheet, and steals with the gentlest 
footsteps imaginable to Ian my cheek and forehead. The 
grass, tinged with the deepest and freshest green, is waving 
beneath its influence; the birds are singing their sweetest 
songs; and as I look into the depths of the clear blue sky 
the rich tints appear to flit higher and higher as I gaze, till 
rny eye seems searching into immeasurable distance. Oh ! 
such a day as this, it is a luxury to breathe. I feel as if I 
could frisk and gambol like my kitten from the mere con- 
sciousness of life. Yet wath all the loveliness around me I 
reperuse your letter, and long for wings to fly from it all to 
the dull atmosphere and crowded highways of the city. 
Yes! I could then look into your eyes, and I should forget 
the blue sky; and your smile, and your voice would doubly 
compensate me for the loss of green trees and singing birds. 
There are green trees in the heart which shed a .softer per- 
fume, and birds which sing more sweetly. 'Nonsense! 
Mag is growing sentimental !' I knew you would say so, 
but the streak came across me, and you have it at full 
length. In plainer terms, how delighted, how more than 
delighted I shall be wdien 1 do come I when I do come, Kate ! 
oh ! oh ! oh !~wdiat would our language be without inter- 
jections, those expressive parts of speech, which say so 
much in so small a compass 1 Now I am sure you can un- 
derstand from these three syllables all the pleasure, the 
rapture I anticipate; the meeting, the parting, all the com- 
ponent parts of that great whole which I denominate a visit 
to New York ! No, not to New York! but to the few dear 
friends whose society will afford me all the enjoyment I ex- 
pect or desiip, and who, in fact, constitute all my New York. 



04 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

June 2d. I had written thus far, dear Kate, when I was 
most agreeably interrupted by a proposal for a ride on 
horseback ; my sheet slid of itself into the open drawer, 
my hat and dress fl«w on as if by instinct, and in ten 
minutes I was galloping full speed through the streets of 
our little village with father b}^ my side. I rode till nearly 
tea-time, and came home tired, tired, tired ; oh, I ache to 
think of it. My poor letter slept all night as soundly as its 
writer, but now that another day has dawned, the very 
opposite of its predecessor, damp, dark, and rainy, I have 
drawn it forth from its receptacle, and seek to dissipate all 
outward gloom, by communing with one the thought of 
whom conveys to my mind any thing but melancholy. Oh, 
Kate, Kate, in spite of your disinterested and sober advice 
to the cdntrarj^, I shall come, I shall soon come, just as soon 
as M. can and will run up for me. Yet, perhaps, in the end 
I shall be disappointed. My happy anticipations resemble 
the cloudless sky of yesterday, and who knows but a stormy 
to-morrow may erase the brilliant tints of hope as well as 
those of nature. * * * * * * Do write quickly, and tell mp 
if I am to prepare. If you continue to feel as when you 
last wrote, and still advise n:!e not to come, I shall dispose 
of your advice in the most approved manner, throw it to 
the winds, and embark armed and equipped for your city, 
to make my destined visit, and fulfil its conditions by fair 
means or foul, and bring you home in triumph. Oh ! we 
shall have fine times. Oh dear, I blush to look back upon 
my sheet and see so many Vs in it." 

The lime of her brother^s coming drew near. Fie would 
be with us at nine in the morning. At eleven they were to 
start. I prepared all for her departure with my own hand, 
lest, should I trust it to a domestic to make the arrangements, 
she would make some exertion herself. She sat by me while 
thus engaged, relating playful anecdotes, until I urged her to 
retire for the night. On going into her room an hour or two 
afterwards, I was alarmed to find her in a high fever. About 
midnight she was taken with bleeding at the lungs. I flew to 
her father, and in a few minutes a vein was opened in her 
arm. To describe our feelings at this juncture is impossible. 
We stood gazing at each other in mute despair. After that 
shock had subsided her father retired, and I seated myself by 
the bedside to watch her slumbers, and the rising sun found 
me still at my post. She awoke, pale, feeble and exhausted 
by the debilitating perspiration which attended her sleep. She 
was surprised to find that I had not been in bed ; but when 
she attempted to speak I laid my finger upon her lips and 



BIOGRAPHY. ^5 

desired her to be silent. She understood my motive, and when 
I bent mv head to kiss her, I saw a tear upon her cheek, i 
told her the necessity of perfect quiet, and the danger which 
would result from agitation. Before her brother came she 
desired to rise. I assisted her to do so, and he found hei 
quietly seated in her easy chair, perfectly composed in man- 
ner, and determined not to increase her difficulties by givinc^ 
way to feelinos which must at that time have oppressed her 
heart My son was greatly shocked to find h-er in this state. 
I met* him and urged the importance of perfect self-possession 
on his part, as any sudden agitation might in her present 
alarming state be fatal. Poor fellow ! he subdued his feelmgs 
and met her with a cheerful smile which concealed a heart 
almost burstincT with sorrow. The propriety of her takmg 
this iaunt had been discussed by her lather and myself for a 
number of weeks. We both thought her too ill to leave home 
but her strong desire to go, the impression she had^^bibed 
that travelling would greatly benefit her health, and the plead- 
incT of friend.^in her behalf, on the ground that disappointment 
would have a more unfavourable effect than the journey pos- 
sibly could iiave, all had their effect in leading us to consent 
It was possible it might be of use to her, although it was at 
best an experiment of a doubtful nature. But this attack was 
decisive : yet caution must be used in breaking the matter to 
her m her'present weak state. Her brother stayed a day or 
two with us, and then returned, telling her thai when she 
was able to perform the journey, he would come again and 
take her with him. After he left us, she soon regained her 
usual strength, and in a fortnight her brother returned and 
♦ook b'jr to New York. . , 

T^^ anxiety of Mrs. Davidson was intense until she received 
her ^;rst letter. It was written from New York and in a 
cheprful vein, speaking encouragingly of her health, but 
showina more solicitude about the health and well being ot 
her molher than of her own. She continued to write fre- 
Guently, givin^ animated accounts of scenes and persons. 

The followi'ncT extract relates to an excursion, in company 
with two of he"r brothers, into West Chester county, one of 
the pleasantest, and, until recently, the least fishionably. 
known, regions on the banks of the Hudson. 

« At three o'clock, we were in the Singsing steamer with 
the water sparklincr below, and the sun broiling over head 
Kcom^^^^^^^^^ thundercloud arose, and 1 



96 MISS MARGARET DAVID60N. 

retreated, quite terrified, to the cabin. But it4|^roved a re- 
freshing shower. Oh ! how sweet, how delightful tlie air 
was! When we landed at the dock, every thing looked so 
fresh and green ! We mounted into a real country vehicle, 
and rattled up the hill to the village inn, a quiet, pleasant 
little house. I was immediately shown to my room, where 
I stayed until tea-time, enjoying the prospect of a splendid 
sunset upon the mountains, and resting alter the fatigues of 
the day. At seven, we drank tea, a meal strongly contrasted 
with the fashionable meagre unsocial city tea. Tiie table 
was crowded with every "thing good, in the most bountiful 
style, and served with the greatest attention by the land- 
lord's pretty daughter, I retired soon after tea, and slept 
soundly until daybreak. Alter breakfast, we sent lor a car- 
riage to take us along the course of the Croton, to see the 
famous water-works,"but, to our disappointment, every car- 
riage was engaged, and we could not go. In the afternoon, 
a party was made up to go in a boat across the river, and 
ascend a mountain to a singular lake upon its summit, 
where all the implements of fishing vrere provided, and a 
collation was prepared. In short it was a pic-nic. To this 
we were invited, but on learning they would not return 
until nine or ten in the evening, that scheme also v/as aban- 
doned. Towards night we walked around the village, 
looked at the tunnel, and visited the ice-cream man, and'in 
spite of my various disappointments, I retired quite happy 
and pleased with my visit. The next day was Sunday, and 
we proposed going to the little Dutch church, a few miles 
distant, and hearing the service performed in Dutch ; but 
lo ! on drawing aside my curtains in the morning, it rained, 
and we were obliged to content ourselves as well as we 
could until the rain was over. After dinner the sun again 
peeped out, as if for our special gratification, and in a "few 
minutes a huge country wagon, with a leathern top and 
two sleek horses, drew up to the door. W^e mounted into 
it, and away we rattled over the most beautiful country I 
ever saw. Oh! it was magnificent ! Every now and then 
tne view of the broad Hudson, with its distant hills, and the 
clouds resting on their summits, burst upon our vlev/. Now 
we would ascend a lofty hill, clothed with forests, and 
verdure of the most brilliant hues; nov/ dash down into a 
deep ravine with a stream winding and gurgling along its 
bed, v/ith its tiny waves rushing over the wheel of some 
rustic mill, embosomed in its shade and solitude. Every 
now and then the gable end of some low Dutch building 
v/ould present itself before us, smiling in its peaceful still- 
ness, and conveying to the mind a perfect picture of rural 
simplicity and comfort, although, perhaps, of ignorance. At 
length we paused upon the summit of a gentle hill, and 



BIOGRAPHY. 97 

judge of my delight when I beheld below me the old Dutch 
church, the quiet, secluded, beautiful little churchyard, the 
running stream, the patli, and the rustic bridge, the ever 
memorable scene of Ichabod's adventure with the headless 
horseman. There, thought I, rushed the poor pedagogue, 
his knees cramped up to his saddle-bow with fear, his hands 
grasping his horse's mane, with convulsive energy, in the 
hope that the running stream might arrest the progress of 
his fearful pursuer, and allow him to pass hi safety. Vain 
hope ! scarce had he reacliea the bridge when he heard, 
rattling behind him, the hoofs of his fiendish companion. 
The church seemed in a blaze to his bewildered eyes, and 
m-ging on, on, he turned to look once more, when, horror 
of horrors ! the head, the fearful head, was in the act of de- 
scending upon his devoted shoulders. Ha! ha! ha! I never 
laughed so in my life. Well, we rode on through the scene 
of poor Andre's capture, and dashed along the classic valley 
of Sleepy Hollow. After a long and delightful drive, we 
returned in time for tea. After tea we were invited into 
Mrs. F.'s parlour, where, after a short time, were collected 
quite a party of ladies and gentlemen. At nine we v.-ere 
served with ice-cream, wine, &,c. I retired very much 
pleased and very much fatigued. Early in the morning we 
rose with the most brilliantsun, breakfasted, mounted once 
more into the wagon, and rattled off to the dock. Oh ! that 
I could describe to you how fresh and sweet the air was. I 
felt as if I wanted to open m.y mouth Vvide and inhale it. 
We gav^e M. our parting kisses, and soon found ourselves 
once more, after this charming episode, approaching the 
mighty city. We had a delightful sail of two or three 
hours, and again rode up to dear aunt M.'s, where all 
seemed glad at my return. I spent the remainder of the 
day in resting and reading." 

In these artless epistles, continues Mrs. Davidson, there is 
much of character, for who could imagine this constant cheer- 
fulness, this almost forgetfulness of self, these affection-ite 
endeavours, by her sweetly playful account of all her cmplnv- 
ments while absent, to dispel the grief which she knew wns 
preying upon my mind on account of her illness? Who 
could conceive the pains she took to conceal from me the 
ravages which disease was daily making upon her form? 
She was never heard to complain, and in her letters to me, 
she hardly alludes to her illness. The friends to wdiom I had 
entrusted her, during her short period of absence, sometimes 
feared that she would never be able to reach home again. 
Her brother told me, but not until long after her return, that 



98 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

on her way home she really fainted several times from debil- 
ity — and that he took her from the boat to the carriage as he 
would have done an infant. 

On the sixth of July, I once more folded to my heart this 
cherished object of my solicitude ; but oh, the change which 
three short weeks had wrought in her appearance struck me 
forcibly. I was so wholly unprepared for it, that I nearly 
fainted. After the excitement of the meeting (which she had 
evidently summoned all her fortitude to bear with composure) 
was over, she sat down by me, and passing her thin arm 
around my waist, said, " Oh, my dear mamma, I am home 
again at last ; I now feel as if I never wanted to leave you 
again ; I have had a delightful visit, my friends were all glad 
to see me, and have watched over me with all the kindness 
and care which affection could dictate, but oh, there is no 
place like home, and no care like a mother's care ; there is 
something in the very air of home, and in the sound of your 
voice, mother, which makes me happier just now, than all the 
scenes which I have passed through in my little jaunt; oh, 
after all, home is the only place for a person as much out of 
health as I am." I strove to suppress my emotions, while I 
marked her pale cheek and altered countenance. She fixed 
her penetrating eyes upon my face, kissed me, and drawing 
back to take a more full survey of the effects which pain and 
anxiety had wrought in me, kissed me again and again, say- 
ing, " she knew I had deeply felt the want of her society, and 
now once more at home, she should so prize its comforts as 
to be in no haste to leave it again." She was much wasted, 
and could hardly walk from one room to another; her cough 
was very distressing ; she had no pain, but a languor and 
depression of spirits, foreign to her nature. She struggled 
against this debility, and called up all the energies of her 
mind to overcome it ; her constant reply to inquiries about her 
health, by the friends who called, was the same as formerly, 
" Well, quite well — mother calls me an invalid, but I feel well." 
Yet, to me, when alone, she talked more freely of her symp- 
toms, and I thought I could discern from her manner, that 
she had apprehensions as to the result. I had often endea- 
voured to acquire firmness sufficient to tell her what was her 
situation, but she seemed so studiously to avoid the disclosure, 
that my resolution had hitherto been unequal to the task. Bu* 
I was much surprised one day, not long after her return from 
New York, by her asking me to tell her, without reserve, my 



BIOGRAPHY. m 

opinion of her state. The question wrung my very heart ; I 
was wholly unprepared for it, and it was put in so solemn a 
manner, that I could not evade it, were I disposed to do so. 
I knew v/ith what strong affection she clung to life, and the 
objects and friends which endeared it to her; I knew how 
bright the world upon which she was just entering appeared 
to her young fancy, what glowing pictures she had drawn of 
future usefulness and happiness. I was now called upon, at 
one blow, to crush these hopes, to destroy the delightful 
visions, which had hovered around her from her cradle until 
this very period ; it would be cruel and wrong to deceive her, 
in vain I attempted a reply to her direct and solemn appeal, 
and my voice grew husky ; several times I essayed to speak, 
but the words died away on my lips ; I could only fold her to 
my heart in silence, imprint a kiss upon her forehead, and 
leave the room to avoid au;itatin<r her v/ith feelinii-s I had no 
power to repress. 

The following extract from a letter to her brother in New 
York, dated a short time after this incident occurred, and 
which I never saw until after her departure, vvill best portray 
her own feelings at this period. 

" As to my health at present, I feel as well as when you 
were iiere, and the cough is much abated, but it is evident 
to me, that mother tliinka me not so well as before I left 
home; I do not myself believe that I have gained any thing 
from the visit, and in a case like mine, standing still is cer- 
tainly loss, but I feel no worse. However, I have learned 
that feelings are no criterion of disease. Now, brother, I 

want to know what Dr. M discovered, or thought he 

discovered, in his examination of my lungs; father says no- 
thing — mother, when I ask, cannot tell me, and looks so 
sad I Now, I ask you, hoping to be answered. If you have 
not heard the doctor say, I v/ish you would ask him, ana 
write to me. If it is more unfavourable than I anticipate, it 
is best I should know now ; if it is contrary, how much pain 
and restlessness and suspicion, will be spared me by the 
knowledge. As to myself, I feel and know" that my health 
is in a most precarious state, that the disease we dread has 
perhaps fostened upon me, but I have an impression that if 
I make use of the proper remedies and exercise, I may yet 
recover a tolerable degree of health. I do not feel that my 
case is incurable; T wish to know if I am wrong. 1 have 
rode on horseback twice since you left me; dear, dear 
brother, what a long egotistic letter I have written you ! do 
forgive me, my heart was full, and I felt that I must unbur- 
den it. I wish you v^'ould write mo a long letter. Do not 



100 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

let dear mother know at present the questions I have asked 
voii." * * * * * * ^ 

From this period she grew more thoughtful. There was 
even a solemnity in her manner wiiich I never before observ- 
ed. Her mind, as I mentioned before, had been much per- 
plexed by some doctrinal points. To solve these doubts I 
asked if 1 should not send for some clergyman. She said no. 
She had heard many discussions on these subjects, and they 
nad always served rather to confuse than to convince her. 
" I would rather converse with you alone, mother." She 
then asked me if I thought it essential to salvation that she 
should adopt any particular creed. I felt that I was an ineffi- 
cient, perhaps a blind guide, yet it was my duty not only to 
impart consolation, but to explain to her my own views of the 
truth. I replied that I considered faith and repentance only, 
to be essential to salvation ; that it was very desirable that 
her mind should be settled upon some particular mode of faith ; 
but that I did not think it absolutely necessary that she should 
adopt the tenets of any established church, and again recom- 
mended an attentive perusal of the New Testament. She ex- 
pressed her firm belief in the divinity of Christ. The perfec- 
tions of his character, its beauty and holiness excited her 
admiration, while the benevolence which prompted the sacri- 
fice of himself to save a lost world, filled her with the most 
enthusiastic gratitude. It was a source of regret that so much 
of her time had been spent in light reading, and that her 
writings had not been of a more decidedly religious character. 
She lamented that she had not chosen scriptural subjects for 
the exercise of her poetical talent, and said, " Mamma, should 
God spare my life, my time and talents shall for the future be 
devoted to a higher and holier end." She felt that she had 
trifled with the gifts of Providence, and her self-condemnation 
and grief were truly affecting. "And must I die so young? 
My career of usefulness hardly commenced? Oh! mother, 
how sadly have I trifled with the gifts of heaven ! What have 
f done which can benefit one human being?" I folded her 
to my heart, and endeavoured to soothe the tumult of her feel- 
ings, bade her remember her dutiful conduct as a dauc^hter, 
her afl^ectionate bearing fis a sister and a friend, and the con- 
solation which she had afforded me through yeat's of suffering ! 
" Oh my mother," said she, " I have been reflecting much of 
late upon this sad waste of intellect, and had marked out for 
myself a course of usefulness which, should God spare my 



BIOGRAPHY. 101 

ife — " Here her emotions became too powerful to procrcci. 
At times she suffered much anxiety with regard to her eternal 
welfare, and deej)ly lamented her want of faithfulness in the 
performance of her religious duties ; complained of coldness 
and formality in her devotional exercises, and entreated me 
to pray with and for her. At other times, her hopes of hea- 
ven would be bright, her faith unwavering and her devotion 
fervent. Yet it was evident to me, that she still cherished the 
hope that her life might be prolonged. Her mother had lin- 
gered for years in a state equally hopeless, and during that 
period had been enabled to attend to the moral and religious 
culture of her little family. Might not the same kind Provi- 
dence prolong Aer Zi/e ? It would be vain to attempt a de- 
scription of those seasons of deep and thrilling interest. God 
alone knows in what way my -own weak frame was sustained. 
I felt that she had been renovated and purified by Divine 
Grace, and to see her thus distressed when I thought that all 
the consolations of the Gospel ought to be hers, gave my 
heart a severe pang. 

" Many of our i^riends now were of opinion that a change of 
climate might benefit, perhaps restore her. Heretofore, when 
the suggestion had been made, she shrunk from the idea of 
leaving her home for a distant clime. Now her anxiety to try 
the efiect of a change was great. I felt that it would be vain, 
although I was desirous that nothing should be left untried. 
Feeble as she now was, the idea of her resigning the comforts 
of home, and being subject to the fatigues of travelling in public 
conveyances, was a dreadful one, and yet if there was a ra- 
tional prospect of prolonging her life by these means, I was 
anxious to give them a trial. Dr. Davidson, after much de- 
liberation on the subject, called counsel. Dr. came, 

and when, after half an hour's pleasant and playful conversa- 
tion with Margaret, he joined us in the parlour, oh ! how m^ 
poor heart trembled. I hung upon the motions of his lips as 
if my own life depended on what they might utter. At length 
he spoke, and I felt as if an icebolt had passed through my 
heart. He had never thought, though he had known her 
many years, that a change of climate would benefit her. She 
had lived beyond his expectations many months, even years; 
and now he was convinced, were we to attempt to take her to 
a southern climate, that she would die on the passage. Make 
it as pleasant as possible for her at home, was his advice. He 
thouiiht that a few months must terminate her life. She 



102 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

knew that we had confidence in the opinion of this, her favourite 
physician. When I had gained firmness enough to answer 
her questions, I again entered the room and found her com- 
posed, though she had evidently been strongly agitated, and 
had not brought her mind to hear her doom. Never, oh ! 
never to the latest hour of my life, shall I forget the look she 
gave me when I met her. What a heart-rending task was 
mine ! I performed it as gently as possible. I said the doctor 
thought her strength unequal to the fatigue of the journey ; 
that he was not so great an advocate for change of climate as 
many persons ; that he had known many cases in which he 
thought it injurious, and his best advice was, that we should 
again ward off the severity of the winter by creating an at- 
mosphere within our house. She mildly acquiesced, and the 
subject was dropped altogether.' She sometimes read, and fre- 
quently, from m.ere habit, held a book in her hand when un- 
able to digest its contents, and within the book there usually 
rested a piece of paper, upon which she occasionally marked 
the reflections which arose in her mind, either in poetry or 
prose." 

We here interrupt the narrative of Mrs. Davidson, to inseit 
a copy of verses addressed by Margaret to her brother, a 
young ofiicer in the army, and stationed at a frontier post in 
the far west. They were written in September, about two 
months before her death, and are characterized throughout by 
her usual beauty of thought and tenderness of feeling ; but the 
last verse, which alludes to the fading verdure, and falling 
leaf, and gathering melancholy, and lifeless quiet of the sea- 
son, as typical of her own blighted youth and approaching 
dissolution, has something in it pec; jiarly solemn and affecting. 

TO MY SOLDIER BROTHERIN THE FAR WEST.* 

'T is an autumn eve, and the tints of day 

From the west are slowly stealing, 
And clouds round the couch of the setting sun 

Are gently and silently wheeling. 
'Tis the scene and the hour for the soul to bathe 

In its own deep springs of feeling, 
And my thoughts, from their gaUing bonds set free, 
Have fled to the " far, far west" to thee ! 

And perchance, 'mid the toils of thy varied life, 

Thou also art pausing awhile, 
To behold how beautiful all things look 

In the sunlight's passing smile ; 



* This copy of verses has come to hand since the publication of tlie 
first edition of this memoir. 



BIOGRAPHY. 103 

And perchance recollections of kindred and home 

Thy cares for a moment beguile ; 
Thy ilioughis have been mine in their passage to thee, 
And though distant, far distant, our spirits are free ! 

2 know thou art dreaming of home, 

And the dear ones sheltered there ; 
Of thy mother, pale with the pain of years, 

And thy sire with his silvered hair; 
And with lliem blend thoughts of thy boyish years, 

When the world looked all so fair. 
When thy cheek flushed high at the voice of praise, 

And thy breast was unknown to care ; 
And while memory burns her torch for thee, 
I know that these thoughts and these dreams will be ! 

But when, in the shade of the autumn wood. 

Thy wandering footsteps stray, 
When yellow leaves and perishing buds 

Are scattered in thy way ; 
W^hen all around thee breathes of rest, 

And sadness and decay — 
With the drooping flower, and the falhng tree, 
Oh 1 brother, blend thy thoughts of me ! 

" The following fragments," continues Mrs. Davidson, 
" appear to be the very breathings of her soul during the last 
few weeks of her life, written in pencil, in a hand so weak 
and tremulous that I could with difficulty decipher them word 
by word with the aid of a strong magnifying glass. 

" Consumption I child of woe, thy blighting breath 
Marks all that 's fair and lovely for thine own, 
And, sweeping o'er the silver chords of life, 
Blends all their^music in one deathlike tone." 
1838. 

" What strange, what mystic things we are, 

With spirits longing to outlive the stars. 

******** but even in decay 

Hasting to meet our brcthreti in the dust. 

As one small dewdrop run^, another drops 
To sink unnoticed in the world of waves." 

" O it is sad to feel that when a few short years 
Of life are past, we shall lie down, unpitied 
And unknown, amid a careless world ; 
That youth and age and revelry and grief 
Above our heads ^all pass, and we alone 
Shall sleep ! alone shall be as we have been. 
No more. 

These are unfinished fragments, a part of which I could 
not decipher at all. I insert them to give an idea of the daily 
operations of her mind during the whole of this long summer 
of suffering. Her gentle spirit never breathed a murmur or 



104 MISS MARGARET DxWIDSON. 

complaint. I think she was rarely heard to express even a 
feeling of weariness. But here are a few more of those out- 
pourings of the heart. I copy these little effusions with all 
their errors; there is a sacredness about them which forbids 
the change even of a single lettt-r. The first of the fragments 
which follow was written on a Sabbath evening in autumn, 
not many weeks before her death. 

It is autumn, the season of rapid decay, 

When the flow' rets of summer are hasting away 

From the breath of the wintry blast, 
And the buds which oped to the gazer's eye, 
And the glowing tints of the gorgeous sky, 
And the iorests robed in their emerald dye, 

With their loveliest blossoms have past. 

'Tis eve, and the brilliant sunset hue 
Is replaced by a sky of the coldest blue, 

Untouched by a floating cloud. 
And all nature is silent, calm and serene. 
As though sorrow and suflTering never had been 
On this beautiful earth abroad. 

'T is a Sabbath eve, and the longing soul 
Is charm'd by its quiet and gentle control 

From each wayward and wandering thought, 
And it longs from each meaner affection to move. 
And it soareth the troubles of earth above 
To bathe in that fountain of light and love. 

Whence our purest enjoyments are caught, 
1838. 

But winter, O what shall thy greeting be 

From our waters, our earth, and our sky ? 
What welcoming strains shall arise for thee 

As thy chariot-wheels draw nigh ? 
Alas ! the fresh flowers of the spirit decay 

As thy cold, cold steps advance. 
And even young Fancy is shrinking awav 

From the chill of thy terrible glance ; ' 
And Hope with her mantle of rainbow hue 

Hath fled from thy freezing eye. 
And her bright train of visions are melting in air 

As thy shivering blasts sweep by. 
Thy •*****'* 

Oct. ]S38. 

THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. 
The snirit, what is it ? Mysterious, sublime. 

Undying, unchanging, for ever the same, 
It bounds lightly athwart the dark billov/s of time, 
And moves on unscorched by its heavenly flame. 

Man owns thee and feels thee, and knows the.; divine; 

He feels thou art his, ar.d thou never canst di'^ i 
lie believes thee a gem from the Maker's pure shrine, 

A portion of purity holy and high. 



BIOGRAPHY. 105 

'Tis around him, within him, the source of his life, 
Yet too weak to contemplate its glorv and might ; 

He trembling shrinks back to dull earth's humble strife, 
And leaves the pure atmosphere glowing with hght. 

Thou spark from the Deity's radiant throne, 
I know thee, yet shrink from thy greatness and power; 

Thou art mine in thy splendour, I feel thee my own. 
Yet behold me as frail as the light summer flower. 

I strive in my weakness to gaze on thy might. 

To trace out thy wanderings through ages to come, 

Till like birds on the sea, all exhausted, at length 
I flutter back weary to earth as my home. 

Like a diamond when laid in a rough case of clay, 
Which may crumble and wear from the pure gem enclosed, 

But which ne'er can be lit by one tremulous ray 
Froni the glory-crown'd star in its dark case reposed. 

As the cool weather advanced, her decline became more 
visible, and she devoted more and more of her time to search- 
ing the Scriptures, self-examination and subjects for reflection, 
and qiiojjtions which were to be solved by evidences deduced 
from the Bible. I found them but a few days before her 
death, in the sacred volume which lay upon the table, at which 
she usually sat during her hours of retirement. She had been 
searching the hoiy book, and overcome by the exertion, rang 
the bell, wiiich summoned me to her side, for no person but 
myself was admiitcd during the time set apart for her devo- 
tional exercises. 

Subjects for reflection. 

1st. The uniform usefulness of Christ's miracles. 

2d. The manner in which he overthrows all the exalted 
hopes which the Jews entertain of a temporal kingdom, and 
strives to explain to them the entire spirituality of the one 
he has come to erect. 

3d. The deep and unchangeable love for man, which must 
have impelled Christ to re'sist so many temptations and 
endure so many sufferings, evma death, that truth might 
enlighten the world, and heaven and immortality become 
realities instead of dreams. 

4th, The general thoughtlessness of man with regard to 
his greatest, his only interest. 

5th. Christ's constant submission to the will of his Father, 
and the necessity of our imitating the meek and calm and 
gentle qualities of his character, together with that firmness 
of purpose and confidence in God which sustained him to 
the end. 

6th. The necessity of so living, that we need not fear to 
Ihink each day our last. 




106 MISS IVIARGARET DAVIDSON. 

7th. The necessity of religion to soothe and support the 
mind on the bed of sickness. 

8th. Self-examination. 

9th. Is Christ mentioned expressly in Scripture as equal 
with God and a part 1 , . r *, 

10th. Is there sufficient ground for the doctnne ot the 
Trinity"? 

nth. Did Christ come as a prophet and reformer of the 
world, or as a sacrifice for our sins, to appease the wrath 
of his Father 1 

12th. Is any thing said of infant baptism] 

Wrillen in November, 1338. 

About three weeks before her departure, I one morning 
found her in the parlour, where, as I before observed, she 
spent a portion of her time in retirement. I saw that she had 
been much agitated, and seemed weary. I seated myself by 
her and rested her head on my bosom, while I gently pressed 
my hand upon her throbbing temples to soothe the agitation 
of her nerves. She kissed me again and again, and seemed 
as if she feared to trust her voice to speak lest her feelings 
should overcome her. As I returned her caresses, she silently 
put a folded paper in my hand. I began to open it, when she 
gently laid her hand on mine, and said in a low tremulous 
tone," Not now, dear mother ! I then led her back to her 
room, and placed her upon the sofa, and retired to examine 
the paper. It contained the following lines. 

TO MY MOTHER. 

Oh mother, would the power were mine 
To wake the strain thou lov'st to hear, 

And breathe each trembling new-born thought, 
Within thy fondly listening ear. 

As when in days of health and glee, 

My hopes and fancies wander'd free. 

But, mother, now a nhade has past 

Athwart mj^ brightest visions here, 
A cloud of darkest gloom has wrapt 

The remnant of my brief career! 
No song, no echo can I win, — 
The sparkling fount has died within. 

The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 

And Fancy spreads her wings no more ; 
And oh, how vain and trivial seem 

The pleasures that I prized before. 
My soul, with trembling steps and slow, 

Is struggling on through doubt and strife: 
Oh ! may it prove, as time rolls on, 

The pathway to eternal life — 
Then, when my cares and fears are o'er. 
I '11 sing thee as in days of yore 



BIOGRAPHY. 107 

I said that Lope had pass'd from earth : 
'T was but to fold her wings in Heaven, 

To wiusper of the soul's new birlh, 
Of sinners saved and sins forgiven. 

When mine are vvash'd in tears away, 
Then shall my spirit swell my lay. 

When God shall guide my soul above, 
By the soft cords of heavenly love, 
When the vain cares of earth depart, 
And tuneful voices swell my heart, 
Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise. 
And all not offered at His shrine, 
Dear mother, I will place on thine. 

It was long before I could gain sufficient composure to re- 
turn to her. When I did so, 1 found her sweetly calm, and 
she greeted me with a smile so full of affection, that 1 shall 
cherish the recollection of its brightness until my latest breath. 
It was the last piece she ever wrote, e.xcept a paraphrase of four 
lines of the hymn, " I would not live always," which was 
written within the last week of her life. 

" I would not live always thus fettered by sin. 
Temptation without, and corruption within, 
With the soul ever dimmed by its hopes and its fears, 
And the heart's holy flame ever struggling through tears." 



Thus far in preparing tliis memoir, we have availed our- 
selves almost entirely of copious memoranda, furnished us at 
our own request by Mrs. Davidson; but when the narrator 
approached the closing scene of this most affecting story, the 
heart of the mother gave out, and she found herself totally in- 
adequate to the task. Fortunately, Dr. Davidson had retained 
a r-(ipy of a letter, written by her in the midst of her afHiction 
to Miss Sedgwick, in reply to an epistle from that iady, ex- 
pressive of the kindest sympathy, and making some inquiries 
relative to the melancholy event. We subjoin that letter en- 
tire, for never have we read any thing of the kind more truly 
eloquent or deeply affecting. 

" Saratoga Springs. 

" Yes, my dear Miss Sedgwick, she is an angel now ; cahn- 
ly and sweetly she sunk to her everlasting rest, as a babe 
gently slumbers on its mother's bosom. I thank my Father 
in heaven that I was permitted to watch over her, and 1 
trust administer to her comfort during her illness. I know, 
my friend, you will not expect either a very minute or con- 
nected detail of the circumstances preceding her change 



108 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

from me at this time, for I am indeed bowed down witii 
sorrow. I feel that I am truly desolate, how desolate I will 
not attempt to describe. Yet in the depth of grief I have 
consolations of the purest, most soothing and exalted na- 
ture. I would not, indeed I could not murmur, but rather 
bless my God that he has in the plenitude of his goodness 
made me, even for a brief space on earth, the honoured 
mother of such an angel. Oh my dear Miss Sedgwick, I 
wish you could have seen her during the last two months of 
her brief sojourn with us. Her meekness and patience, and 
her even cheerful bearing were unexampled. But wlien she 
was assured that all the tender and endearing ties which 
bound her to earth were about to be severed, when .she saw 
that life and all its bright visions ivere fading from her eyes 
— that she was standing at the entrance of the dark valley 
which must be traversed in her way to the eternal world, 
the struggle was great, but brief— she caught the hem of 
her Saviour's robe and meekly bowed to the mandate of 
her God. Since the beginning of August, I have watched 
this tender blossom with intense anxiety, and marked her 
decline with a breaking heart; and although from that time 
until the period of her departure, I never spent a whole 
night in my bed, my excitement was so strong that I was 
unconscious of the want of sleep. Oh, my dear niadam, the 
whole course of her decline was so unlike any other death- 
bed scene I ever witnessed ; there was nothing of the gloom 
of a sick chamber; a charm was in and around h.er ; a holy 
light seemed to pervade every thing belonging to her. 
There was a sacredness, if I may so express it, which seem- 
ed to tell the presence of the Divinity. Strangers felt it, all 
acknowledged it. Very few were admitted to Iter sick room, 
but those few left it with an elevation of heart new, solemn, 
and delightful. She continued to ride out as long as the 
weather was mild, and even after she became too weak to 
vv^alk she frequently desired to be taken into the parlour, 
and when there, with all her little implements of drawing 
and writing, her books, and even her little work-box and 
basket beside her, she seemed to think that by these little 
attempts at her usual employments ,she could conceal from 
me, for she saw my heart was breaking, the ravages of dis- 
ease and her consequent debility. The New Testament was 
her daily study, and a portion of every day was spent in 
private in self-examination and prayer. My dear Miss 
Sedgwick, how I have felt my own littleness, my total un- 
worthiness, when compared with (his pure, this high-souled, 
intellectual, yet timid, humble child ; bending at tlie altar of 
her God, and pleading for pardon and acceptance in his 
sight, and grace to assist her in preparing for eternity. As 
her strength wasted, she often desired me to share her 



BIOGRAPHY. 109 

hours of retirement and converse with her, and read to her, 
when unable to read herself. 

"Oh! hov/ sad, how delightful, how agonizing is the 
memory of the sweet and holy communion v/e then enjoyed. 
Forgive me, my friend, for thus mingling my own feelings 
v/ith the circumstances you wished to know; and* oh ! con- 
tinue to pra}^ that God will give me submission under this 
desolating stroke. She was my darling, my ahiiost idolized 
child — truly, truly, you have said, the charm of my existence. 
Her symptoms were extremely distressing, although she 
suffered no pain. A v/eek before her departure, she desired 
that the sacrament of the Lord's Supper might be adminis- 
tered to her. ' Mother,' said she, ' I do not desire it because 
I feel worthy to receive it ; I feel myself a sinner, but I de- 
sire to manifest my fliith in Christ by receiving an ordinance 
instituted by himself but a short time before his crucifixion.' 
The Holy Sacrament was administered by Mr. Babcock. 
The solemnity of the scene can be better felt than described. 
I cannot attempt it. After it was over, a holy calm seemed 
to pervade her mind, and she looked almost like a beatified 
spirit. The evening following, she said to me, 'Mother, I 
have made a solemn surrender of myself to God: if it is his 
will, I would desire to live long enough to prove the sin- 
cerity of my profession, but his will be done ; living or dying 
I am henceforth devoted to God.' After this some doubt 
seem.ed to intrude ; her spirit was troubled. I asked her if 
there was any thing she desired to have done, any little 
arrangements to be made, any thing to say which she had 
left unsaid, and assured her that her wishes should be sacred 
to me. She turned her eyes upon me with an expression 
so sad, so mournfully sweet — ' Mother, " When I can read 
my title clear to mansions in the skies," then I will think of 
other matters.' Her hair, which when a little child had been 
often cut to improve its growth, was now very beautiful ; 
and she usually took much pains with it. During the whole 
course of her sickness I had taken care of it. One day, not 
long before her death, she said, evidently making a great 
effort to speak with composure, 'Mother, if you are willing 
I will have my hair cut off; it is troublesome ; I should like 
it better short.' I understood her at once: she did not like 
to have the idea of death associated with those beautiful 
tresses which I had loved to braid. She would have them 
taken off while living. I mournfully gave my consent, and 
she said, ' I will not ask you, my dear mother, to do it ; my 

friend, Mrs. F will be with me to-night, and she will do 

it for me.' The dark rich locks were severed at midnight. 
Never shall I forget the expression of her young faded face 
as I entered the room. 'Do not be agitat^, dear mamma, 
1 am more comfortable- now. Lav it away, if you please, 
9* 



110 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

and to-morrow I will arrange and dispose of it. Do you 
know that I view my hair as something sacred ? It is a 
part of myself, which will be re-united to my body at the 
resurrection.' 

"She had sat in an easy chair or reclined upon a sofa for 
several weeks. On Friday the 22d of November, at my ur- 
gent entreaty, she consented to be laid upon the bed. She 
found it a relief, and sunk into a deep sleep, from which she 
was only awoke when I aroused her to take some refresh- 
ment. When she awoke, she looked and spoke like an 
angel, but soon dropped asleep as before. Oh! how my 
poor heart trembled, for I felt that it was but the precursor 
to her long last rest, although many of our friends thought 
she might "yet linger some weeks. A total loss of appetite, 
and a difficulty in swallowing, prevented her from taking 
any nourishment throughout the day, and when we placed 
her in the easy chair, at night, in order to arrange her bed, 
I offered her some nice food, which I had prepared,* and 
found she could not take it. My feelings amounted almost 
to agony. She said ' Do not be distressed. . I will take it by 
and by.' I seated myself beside her, and she said, ' Surely, 
my dear mother, you have many consolations. You are 
gathering a little family in heaven to welcome you.' My 
heart was full ; when 1 could speak, I said, 'Yes, my love, I 
feel that I am indeed gathering a little family in heaven to 
bid you welcome, but when they are all assembled there, 
how dreadful to doubt whether I may ever be permitted to 
join the circle!' 'Oh hush, dear, dear mother, do not in- 
dulge such sad thoughts; the fact of your having trained 
this little band to inhabit that holy place, is sufficient evi- 
dence to me that you will not fail to join us there.' I was 
with her myself that night, and a friend in the neighbour- 
hood sat up also. On Saturday morning, after I had taken 
half an hour's sleep, I found her as quiet as a sleeping infant. 
1 prepared her some food, and when I awoke her to take it, 
she said, 'Dear mother, I will try if it is only to please you.' 
I fed her as I would have fed a babe. She smiled sweetly 
and said, ' Mother, I am again an infant.' I asked if I 
should read to her; she said yes, she would like to have me 
read a part of the gospel of John. I did so, and then said, 
' My dear Margaret, you look sweetly composed this morn- 
ing. I trust all is peace within your heart' 'Yes, mother, 
all is peace, sweet peace. I feel that I cnn do nothing for 
myself. I have cast my burden upon Christ.' I asked if 
she could rest her liopes there in perfect confidence. ' Yes,' 
she replied, 'Jesus will not fail me— I can trust him.' She 
then sank into a deep sleep, as on the preceding day. 

"In the aft^noon, Mr. and Mrs. IL came from Ballston. 
They were much affected by the change a few days liad 



BIOGRAPHY. Ill 

made in her appearance. I awoke her, fearing she might 
sleep too long, and said her friends had come. She extended 
her arms to them both, and kissed them, saying to Mr. H. 
that he found her a late riser, and then sank to sleep again. 
Mrs. H. remained with us that night. About sunset I spoke 
to her. She awoke and answered me cheerfully, but observ- 
ing that I was unusually depressed, she said, 'Dear mother, 
I am wearing you out.' I replied, 'My child, my beloved 
child, it is not that ; the thought of our separation fills me 
with anguish.' I never shall forget the expression of her 
sweet face, as she replied. 'Mother, my own dear mother, 
do not grieve. Our parting will not be long. In life we 
Vere inseparable, and I feel that you cannot live without 
me. You will soon join me, and we shall part no more.' I 
kissed her pale cheek, as I bent over her, and finding my 
agitation too strong to repress, I left the room. She soon 
after desired to getup; she said she must have a coughing 
fit, and she could bear it better in the chair. When there 
she began to cough, and lier distress was beyond descrip- 
tion ; her strength was soon exhausted, and we again car- 
ried her to the bed. 'She coughed fi-om six until half past 
ten. I then prevailed on her to take some nutritious drink, 
and she fell asleep. 

"My husband and Mrs. H. were both of them anxious 
that I should retire and get some rest, but I did not feel the 
want of it, and impressed as I was with the idea that this 
was the last night she would pass on earth, I could not go 
to bed. But others saw not the change, and to satisfy them, 
I went at twelve to my room, which opened into hers. 
There I sat listening to every sound. All seemed quiet. I 
twice opened the door, and Mrs, H. said she slept, and had 
taken her drink as often as directed, and again urged me 
to go to bed. A little after two I put on my night dress, 
and laid down. Between three and fout^^Mrs. H. came in 
' haste for ether. I pointed to the bottle, and sprang up. 
She said, ' I entreat, my dear I\Irs. Davidson, that you do 
not rise ; there is no sensible change, only a turn of oppres- 
sion.' She closed the door, and I hastened to rise, when 
Mrs. H. came again, and said Margaret has asked for her 
mother. I flew^he held the bottle of ether in her own 
hand, and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head 
and chest. She revived. 'I am better now,' said she. 
'Mother, you tremble, you are cold; put on your clothes' 
I stepped to the fire, and threw on a wrapper, when she 
stretched oat both her arms, and exclaimed, 'Mother, take 
mo in your arms,' I raised her, and seating myself on the 
bed, passed my arms around her waist ; her head dropped 
upon ray bosom, and her expressive eyes were raised to 
mine. That look I never shall forget; it said, 'Tell me, 



112 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

mother, is this death?' I answered the appeal as if she had 
spoken. I laid my hand on her white brow — a cold dew 
had gathered there. I spoke, ' Yes, my beloved, it is almost 
finished ; you will soon be with Jesus.' She gave one more 
look, two or three short fluttering breaths, and all was 
over — her spirit was with its God — not a struggle or groan 
preceded her departure. Her lather just came in time to 
witness her last breath. For a long half hour I remained 
in the samiC position with the precious form of my lifeless 
child upon my bosom. I closed those beautiful eyes with 
my own hand. I was calm. J felt that I had laid my angel 
from my own breast, upon the bosom of her Gcd. Her 
father and myself were alone. Her Sabbath commenced in 
heaven. Ours was opened in deep, deep anguish. Our 
sons, who had been sent for, had not arrived, and four days 
and nights did Ellen, (our young nurse, whom Margaret 
dearly loved,) and I, watch over the sacred clay. I could 
not resign this mournful duty to strangers. Although no 
son or relative vv^as with us in this sad and solemn hour, 
never did sorrowing strangers meet with more sympathy, 
than we received in this hour of affliction, from the respected 
inhabitants of Saratoga. Vie shall carry with us thVough 
life, the grateful remembrance of their kindness. And now, 
my dear madam, let me thank you for your kind consoling 
letter, it has given me consolation. My Margaret, my now 
angel child, loved you tenderly. She recognised in yours 
a kindred mind, and I feel that her pure spirit will behold 
with delight your eflforts to console her bereaved mother." 

She departed this life on the 25th of November, 1838, 
aged fifteen years and eight months ; her earthly remains 
repose in the grave-yard of the village of Saratoga. 

*' A few days after her departure," observes Mrs. Davidsofi 
in a memorandum, "J was searching the library in the hope 
of finding some further memento of my lost darling, when a 
packet folded in the form of a letter met my eye. It was 
confined with a needle and thread, instead of a seal, and 
secured more firmly by white sewing sillc, which was passed 
several times around it; the superscription was, * For my 
mother, private.' Upon opening these papers, I found they 
contained the results of self-examination, from a very early 
period of her life, until within a few days of its close. Thesf3 
results were noted and composed at different periods. They 
are some of the most interesting relics she has left, but thoy 
are of too sacred a nature to meet the public eye. They dis- 
play a degree of self-knowledge and humility, and a depth 
of contrition, which could only emanate from a heart chastened 
and subdued by the power of the divine grace." 



BIOGRAPHY. 113 

* We here conclude this memoir, which, for the most part, 
as the reader will perceive, is a mere transcript of the records 
furnished by a mother's heart. We shall not pretend to com- 
ment on these records ; they need no comment, and they 
admit no heightening. Indeed, the farther we have proceeded 
with our subject, the more has the intellectual beauty and the 
seraphic purity of the little being we have endeavoured to 
commemorate broken upon us ; and the more have we shrunk 
at our own unworthiness for such a task. To use one of her 
own exquisite expressions, she was "A spirit of heaven fet- 
tered by the strong affections of earth ;" and the whole of her 
brief sojourn here, seems to have been a struggle to regain 
her native skies. We may apply to her a passage from one 
of her own tender apostrophes to the memory of her sister 
Lucretia. 

One who came from heaven awhile 

To bless the mourners here, 
Their joys to hallow with her smile. 

Their sorrow with her tear. 

Who joined to all the charms of earth 

The noblest gifts of heaven; 
To whom the Muses at her hirCs 

Their s.vcetest smiles had giveft. 

Whose eye beamed forth with fancy's ray, 

And genius pure and high ; 
Whose very soul had seemed to bathe 

In streams of melody. 

The cheek which once so sweetly beamed, 

Grew pallid with decay, 
The burning tire within consumed 

Its tenement of clay. 

Death, as if fearing to destroy, 

Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 
She gave a tear for those she loved, 

Then met him with a smile. 



END OF THE MEMOIR. 



KEMAINS. 



U4) 



A TALE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. 

About the close of tiie year 1313 there stood on the banks of the 
S.iraniic a small neat cottage, which peeped forth from the surrounding 
foliage, the image of rural quiet and contentment ; the scenery around 
it was wildly yet beautifully romantic ; the clear blue river, glancing 
and sparkling at its feet, served only as a preparative for another and 
more magnificent view, where the stream, gliding on to the west, was 
buried in tlie broad while bosom of Chainplain, which stretched back, 
wave after wave, in the distance, until lost in faint blue mists that veiled 
the sides of its guardian mountains, seeming more lovely in their in- 
distinctness. 

On the borders of the Saranac the little village of Plattsburgh Iiad 
sprung up, in picturesque wildncss, amid the loveliest haunts of nature, 
imparting to the mind, by its indications of man's presence with the 
joys and sufferings ever attendant iii his train, a deeper interest than u 
scene of solitary nature would ever have inspired. Of all the low- 
roofed and shaded dwellings which rose around, the one named above, 
although less indicative of wcaltii, was by far tiic most striking, from 
its peculiarly beautiful situation. The old-fashioned piazza, which ex- 
.tended in front of the building, was shaded with vines and Jioneysuckle 
just budding into life; the turf on the bank of the river was of the 
richest and brightest emerald, and the wild rose and swcctbriar, which 
twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with more delicate 
freshness and perfume within the bounds of this earthly paradise. It 
was May — the blue waves of the Saranac, so lately released from their 
icy bondage, bounded along with music and gladness, to meet and 
mingle with its parent lake ; the fairy isles, so beautifully throned on 
its sparkling bosom, robed in all the rich luxuriance of spring, and tho 
song of the birds floated forth on the balmy air like a strain of seraph 
melody. 

The proprietor of this lowly mansion was a grey-haired and respecta- 
ble physician, whose life had been spent in toiling to mitigate the ter 
rors of disease, and to obtain a support for his lovely and delicate family 
A few words may serve to describe a character so open and ingenuous, 
and a fate so common to dispositions like his. Early in life he evinced 
a studious and scientific turn of mind, and had scia»jd upon the profes- 
sion of medicine witli all the earnestness of youth. Thirsting for 
kno^\'lcdge, he plunged into its deepest waters, and, after a few years 
of unremitting study, entered u[)on life with a character of firm and 
unbending integrity, and an almost childlike simplicity of manners and 
ignorance of the ways of the world. This was a disposition illy calcu- 
lated to gain wealth or even competence; he knew not how to snatch 
the golden sands that lay within his grasp; he could not be servile to 
(he rich or tyrannical to the poor, and passed through life unblest with 

(US) 



116 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

other riches than those of an approving conscience, and llie tributes of 
respect and love from those whose welfare he had promoted at the 
expense of his own. At the age of twenty-five he saw and loved a 
beautiful and high-spirited girl, and obeying the impulse of alTcclion 
rather than the calm reasonings of prudence, he united her fortunes 
with his own, and settled down for life in this lowly and humble retreat 
vi-e have vainly attempted to describe. At the time of our simple tale, 
he was fir in tlie decline of life, but still performing his professional 
duties. He found his happiness in promoting the comfort of his family 
and enjoying the quiet pleasures of his cheerful fireside. The circle 
which had once closed around it was now sadiy diminished by the in- 
roads of deatii, but three lovely plants still clung by the side of their 
parent tree, and although one of these remaining blossoms seemed 
already fading f\-oni lliC eyes of her idolizing parents, there was much 
of pure and refined enjoyment in this lowly cottage, unknown in the 
haunts of wealth and worldly pleasure. The two eldest children were 
sisters; the one v.-as seventeen, and the other hnd nearly attained her 
sixteenth year. Emily, the eldest, notvv'ithstanding her youth, was the 
belle of the little village, and the life of her family circle, fler form 
and face might have been taken for the model of a Hebe — all health and 
gaiety — her complexion of pure red and white, had never been blanched 
by the cold touch of disease, and her smiling lip, v.ith its childlike 
dimyjles, seemed bidding defiance to care and sorrow, with all their 
retinue of sighs, tears, and wrinkles ; her dark auburn hair curled in 
natural and tiny ringlets on her soft white neck and slioulders ; her full 
hazel eye wore an expression of habitual smiling archness, and her 
birdlike voice was for ever bursting forth in snatches of wild and un- 
taught melody. Oh ! dearly did her father love, at t!:e close of the long, 
weary day, to draw forth his beloved flute and practise some soul-stirring 
air, while the voice of the light-hearted maiden blent with its notes, and 
her feet danced lightly to its measure. Such was Emily, v.'hose spright- 
linesa and native good sense had rendered her the favourite of her father. 
But how shall I describe, in v.'ords, the high-souled, the almost ethe- 
real Melanie? Oh! that memory could paint on other tablets thnn en 
those of the heart! Oh! that we could transfer to lifeless paper tlie 
warm and glowing images which she has there implanted! then might 
I picture that fragile form, which seemed every day fiding into more 
spiritual fragility ; that broad, high brow, through which the blue veins 
coursed like silken threads, so feeble and transparent; that veil of dark 
and luxuriant hair parted so meekly above it, and flowing, in long, 
waving tresses, on her neck ; that cheek, now pale as the snow of De- 
cember, now flushed with a hue too intense for health ; and thnt eye, 
one moment melting with the warmest tears of earthly emotion, and tiie 
next, sparkling v.-ith tiic radiant light of angelic inspiration I She 
seemed not a being of the present, all her confidence in the happiness 
of earth was buried with the past, and all her hopes of pure, e.^alted 
blessedness were merged in the vast future of eternity. Ardent and 
enthusiastic in her temperament, she had loved. Highly nnd poetically 
imaginative, she had invested the object of her affection with the highest 
and most exalted qualities of our nature, and when stern, unbending 
truth dissolved those brigiit dreams of fancy in which she had lived and 
revelled — when she beheld in sober reality that he upon whom she \v,\<\ 
bestowed her affcetions was unworthy of the sacrcd trust, her tniad 



REMAINS. 117 

received a sliock only to be felt or imag-incd by a spirit like lier own — 
gentle, confiding, and, at the same time, bearing witlun itself a standard 
of lofty honour, of pure sentiment, and high and heavenly virtue, by 
which she judged of the world around her, it was indeed an overwhelm- 
ing blov.-; byt hers was not t!ie mind to waste itself in fruitless repinings, 
and bury all its wealth of intellect and affection in the grave of one dis- 
appointed hope: far from it I Upon its first short voyage on the cold 
Waters of life, her little bark had been wrecked, and it now turned back 
to the quiet haven of home with a meek and gentle confidence, to bestow 
upon her family that love which was still tseasured in her heart, and 
direct her powers of mind to higher and holier purposes than before. 
But if her spirit was strong in misfortune, her delicate frame partook 
not of that strength : although the stream of affliction had passed over 
the fragile flower, it had planted in the pale blossom the germs of 
decay — she seemed a .spirit in the home And with the friends of her 
childiiood — she was itr.th them, but not of them. The light faded from 
her eye, the buoyancy from her step, and her voice no longer mingled 
with the gay-hearted carols of her sister. Her hopes were now rested 
upon a firmer foundation than that of earth, and while she walked day 
hy day more deeply into " the valley of the shadow of death," her soul 
and its pure and heavenly faith waxed brighter and brighter to the close. 
The dark mists of receding time seemed to blend with the brilliant fore- 
shadowings of a blessed eternity, and impart to her manners an habitual 
and subdued mournfulness, changed at times to the loftiest elevation, aa 
she caught some unwonted flash from that far land of light towards 
which she was slov.dy and hopefully journeying. 

Her iieart, v.'ith its warm and glowing tenderness, still clung to the 
beings of her earfy love, and when she saw how deeply they mourned 
her visible decline, with a sad sweetness she resumed her wonted avo- 
cations, though each word and act was tinged wilh the lofty and spiritual 
enthusiasm of her nature. If she read, her mind sought fitting aliment 
in the holy sublimity of Milton, or tlie melancholy force and grandeur 
of Young; if she drew, faces and forms of aerial and unearthly beauty 
sprung from her pencil; and if she sung, the wild and tremulous melody 
of her voice thrilled while it charmed the listener. She was dying! For 
the brief space of sixteen years she had been a habitant of earth — she 
had tasted of its purest joy and its keenest sorrow, and now, with a 
calm and trustful earnestness, she was hastening to the home of the 
wear}'. Still there were deep and tender ties whicli bound her below. 
Her mother she adored ; her spirited and highly-gifted little brother she 
watched with a mother's fondness; the sister, the beautiful and light- 
hearted Emily, she loved with more than sisterly affection ; and her 
country, again threatened by the power of a foreign throne, while 
scarcely shadowed by the banner of its new-born freedom — her couty^ry, 
its struggles and its welfare, was still a theme of deep and engrossing 
interest. Such was Melanie Mentreville — such, as fiir as language can 
imperfectly pourtray, the lovely yet too unearthly form unfolded to my 
"mind's eye," like an aerial vision — such the gentle yet elevated spirit 
which is mingling with every dream of fancy, and would fain embody 
itself in words. 

Those who seek in these few pages for a regular and eventful tale 
will rise disappointed from the perusal ; it is nothing more than a faint 
and Imperfrrf skolch of sentiments and scenes which have long since 
10 



118 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

passed away, with their actors, "to dim burial isles of the past, and 
which, still living as vividly as ever in the ideal world of memory, I 
would once more introduce upon the stage of life as beings of real and 
actual existence. 

It was a glorious evening in May ; the sun was just retiring to liis 
couch in the west, arrayed in all the splendid livery of a northern sun. 
set; the groves of pine and chn upon the lake shore were bathed in his 
golden hue, and their tall shadows were reflected in the clear depths 
beneath; the distant mountains of Vermont, whicli bounded the horizon, 
were shrouded with a veil of dream-like glory, blending shade by shade 
with the blue tints above, till heaven and earth seemed one; and that 
heaven I oh that pen could describe its calm and solemn magnificence ; 
the clouds of amber and gold, tinted and fringed with crimson, floating 
over the pure depths, moving as in sleep to their bright western home, 
wliile a ricli blending of purple and green rose up from the horizon as 
if darting to meet them on their mid-career. It was at this glorious 
sunset hour that the two sisters had repaired to the piazza of their little 
cottage to breathe the invigorating air of spring ; and each to enjoy 
with their peculiar feelings the lovely and solemnizing influence of the 
scene. With the last ray of the golden sunlight playing over her 
pale upraised features, Meianie stood beside one of the vine-wreathed 
columns, her head resting on licr hand, and her full dark eyes bent 
earnestly upon the wild and purified drapery of the heavens, now fading 
into dimness, now combining and bursting forth hues more gorgeous 
than before. Emily was bending over a rose-tree in the little enclosure, 
twining a fairy v/rcath of the wild swcetbriar, Vvhile the lively air 
which she almost unconsciously warbled, as if in unison with the cha- 
racter of the scene, died away in tones of i)lai|give and tremulous 
sweetness. For a few moments the silence was unbroken, until Emily, 
springing lightly to her sister's side, exclaimed, while her fine features 
beamed with an expression of affectionate gaiety, " How can you look 
so sad, Melanic, when all around us is breathing the very spirit of hap- 
piness ? Do not the clouds you gaze upon make your heart feel light 
and airy as themselves ! Will not these sweet flowers I have twined 
for you, impart something of their own hue to your cheek and your 
thoughts ?" 

Meianie gently took the wreath from her hand and replied, " You 
mistake me, sister, I am not sad — never perhaps did I experience a mo- 
ment of more exquisite joy, for I thought, that ere those clouds had 
many times fleeted away to their bright homes in the west, my freed 
spirit might soar above them and the great orb which imparts their 
brilliance; to the source of all light, all love; that ere those flowers had 
faded with the blasts of autumn, I might rest in that fair land, where 
flowers of undying l^loom bathe for ever in the river of the waters of 
life ; where there is no more winter to chill the bright buds of nature, 
or the far more fragile blossoms of the heart." 

"Oh, Meianie! Meianie !" said Emily passing her arm around her 
sister's neck, and bursting into tears ; "you will break my heart. Would 
you so gladly leave us all — fiither and mother, and me — and — " 

" No, no," replied Meianie, earnestly ; " but even though you should 
see me no more, I feel, I know, that I shall not leave you, my own, my 
only sister. The thought may be a presumptuous one, but something 
within tells me that I shall sec vou, shall love you as dearly as now — 



REMAINS. 119 

perhaps, even be permitted to watch over and proteet you, and ol), Emi- 
ly, were not this liappinessi" 

She replied only by a warmer pressure of the pale hand within her 
own, and borne away by the suggestions of her wild faney, INIelanie 
continued — 

" Yes, Emily, though this weak and wasted frame may be gone from 
among you, my spiiit shall be with you ; yours will be the blessed task 
of sootliing the pillow of disease, when our beloved parents shall tread 
the pathway I have trodden ; but think not that Melanie, the child of their 
love, will be far from them in that parting hour — wlien you are in sor- 
row, my soul shall plead for you at the throne of eternal mercy — and 
v;hen you are happy, my voice shall whisper in your soul of that Hea- 
venly Father, from whose treasures of love cometh all happiness on 
earth, and all your hopes of blessedness in Heaven ! Do not weep, 
Emily, 1 shall love you all with a purer and holier love. My kind- 
hearted and ingenuous father, my high-souled, my beloved mother : you, 
my sweet blossom ; and you also, my noble little brother," she added, as 
the lovely boy bounded over tlie threshold, and she placed her hand 
carelessly on his long dark curls. 

" Oh ! sister, sister 1" cried Alfred with all the eagerness of boyhood, 
" oh I the sights I have seen to-day ! I have crossed tlie river in a canoe, 
and I have been up to the old fort, and I have seen the inilitia-men 
training, and the flags, and the drums, and the big cannon, and all I — 
didn't you hear it fire ? Sister Emma and Mr. Sclden said I should be 
a soldier. Shall I not, dear sister ?" and with a martial air the minia- 
ture hero strode up and down the piazza as if courting admiration. 

"Fie, Alfred 1" replied Emily, to whose lips the smile had returned 
as before, " has the red coat and the gay epaulettes cliarmcd you so soon ? 
Remember, my little brother, that the liJe of a soldier is a I'llh of hard- 
ships, and his employment a fierce and deadly one ; those glittering 
bayonets have made many a mother childless, and those gay cockades 
cover many a worthless or deceitful brain. No ! never be a soldier, 
Alfred." 

" Say not so, Emily," exclaimed Milanie ; '^ though we now smile at 
the proud step and flashing eye of the mimic warrior, I can read his 
fate in them. If his life is spared, that sprightly and slender form will 
expand into the tall and athletic man, and tiie spark that is now warming 
into life his unfledged fancy, will strengthen into a glowing and un- 
quenchable flame ; and as it now prompts to those tones and gestures 
of mock defiance and command, it will lead him on to deeds of high 
and lofty daring. Yes I thou wilt be a soldier, my little Alfred — noble, 
generous, high-souled, and brave; all, all — " her voice trembled as she 
added, " all I once thought another." 

" Yes, I will be a soldier," echoed the youthful candidate for fame — 
"a brave and an honourable soldier ;" and he bounded away through 
the open door, while the hall rang with his shouts. 

For a few moments Melanie stood with her hands clasped upon her 
bosom as if in mental prayer for the interesting boy whose fate siie had 
prophesied ; and Emily seemed buried in deep revery, her head bowed, 
and her hand .unconsciously pulling the leaves from a splendid moss 
rose, which vvas lialf concealed in her bosom. • The silence was at 
length broken by the soft voice of Milanie. " VVIience came that sweet 
rose, sister Emily ?" The maiden started from her revery, blushed deep- 
'v, i^nd drew the bud from the folds of her handkerchif^fi 



120 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

"Forgive me, Meianie — I — Walter — Mr. Selden left it for you, and 
I — I forgot to give it you." 

A faint sweet smile passed over Melanie's delicate features as she re- 
plied — " Keep it, Emily ; save as a ^iroofofhyotherly kindness, his gifts 
are valueless to me." 

Emily gazed upon the calm and gentle face before her with a mingled 
expression of doubt and joyful inquiry. " Do you not — tell me, dear 
sister, — I fear it cannot be — your heart belies your words ?" 

Mclanie took her trembling hand in both her own, and replied, while 
a shade of deep sadness mingled with the affectionate simplicity of lier 
manner. 

" No, my beloved sister, you wrong me ; what I say is the true, the 
only language of my heart. I wi'U own to you tliat once had I known 
Walter Selden, I might have returned with ardour what I now view 
with pain as an unfortunate and misplaced attachment. You believe it 
not, Emily, but I am dying. Is it for me, whose every tiiought and 
hope should rest upon that v\^orld of spirits to which I am hastening, to 
twine my affections around an earthly idol ? Is it for me, whose way- 
ward love hath once been crushed and blighted, to bid it arise Piiocnix- 
like from the ashes of its destruction, v/ith new hope and new confi- 
dence ? And more than all, is it for me to encourage a visionary 
attachment, which would blast the hopes, the young affections of a 
sister dearer than life ? Blush not, Emily ; I liave read the pure volume 
of yfiur heart perhaps more clearly than yourself; I have long studied 
its pages with pain, yet not without a deep, strong hope for the future. 
When 1 am gone, Emil}'', l;is now ardent passion will be buried in my 
grave , he v/ill only remember me as a sad and pleasing vision ; and aa 
day by day that impression waxes fainter, he will behold the loveliness, 
tlie worth of your mind and person ; and although it is denied to me 
belov/, my rejoicing spirit shall behold the union of those two my heart 
loves best, my sister and my friend." 

Emily threw herself in tears upon the neck of her sister. ''Oh I Me- 
lanie, Melanic, my kind, my generous Meianie ! how can I believe that 
any one who has looked upon that bright, heavenly face, could ever cast 
oiic glance upon a simple, unideal child of earth like me ?" 

" And the loveliest of earth's creation," was Melanie's fond reply as 
she passed her hand over the silken ringlets and blushing ciicek of the 
tearful maiden. 

A year had past by ; the flowers had again bloomed, and were again 
fading, and time (as ever) had brought many a change upon Iiis restless 
pinions. The little village of Plattsburg still looked forth as sweetly 
from amid its groves and streams; the Saranac flowed on with as glad 
a music; the billows rolled as proudly on the broad bosom of Champlain, 
but armed fleets in ail their dreadful array now rode upon its waters; 
the vsice of tlie distant cannon echoed back from its shoies, and martial 
music pealed long and loud through those once quiet abodes of peace. 
It w;is September, 1814, that year which commenced with bloodshed 
and dismay, and closed witii a triumph that shall never fade from the 
annals of cur history, while America hath a heart to v>'arm with the 
glow of patriotism, or a voice to perpetuate the memory of the brave. 
Upon the tenth morning of this memorable month wc would reopen the 
scene of our simple drama ; a morning whicli rose upon our fecbla band 



REMAINS. 1-31 

of intrepid patriots in doubt and anxiety, and inspired in the breasts of 
their numerous and \vell-regul-\tcd foes, new hopes, new confidence of 
victory. Well might they look around upon that mij^hty and veteran 
host of fourteen tliousand warriors, who had conquered in Spain, France, 
and the Indies, and forward upon that weak hut well-disciplined band 
of fifteen hundred, commanded by the brave Macomb, and predict the 
triumph which, in all human probability, must necessarily ensue. After 
a lon|r period of alternate success and defeat, the British forces poured 
in their utmost strength upon the northern frontier, and determined, by 
a decisive attack upon the comparatively unprotected village, to open a 
free passage into th.e heart of that country which tliey had laboured so 
long and so fruitlessly to subdue. Their officers were men who sought 
in Ibreign victories a glory which should enrol their names for ever 
upon the pages of England's history ; they fought for distinctions, for 
titles, for wealth, and they knew not the force of a feeble arm, when 
directed and nerved by that holy patriotism which could toil and bleed, 
ere it would yield one single minutia of that independence bequeathed 
to them by the valour of their immortal sires. 

On the morning of the fii'th, the land force, commanded by Sir George 
Prevost, had approached the village of Platlsburgh, and their fleet was 
prepared to make tlie attack by water at the same time that the army 
entered the town, and overcame the feeble resistance which it expected 
to meet. 

Meanwhile tlie village presented a scene of deep and thrilling interest. 
The small force wliich remained after the departure of the American 
army for Lake Erie was collected by thcii gallant leader. General Ma- 
comb, in fort I\Iorcau, situated on the borders of the lake, a short distance 
from the banks of the Saranac. Here they had planted their cannon, 
and collected their means of defence ; here they were to conquer, or if 
courage and skill proved vain, here they were to die. Guards and sen- 
tinels were posted at intervals along the streets, parties of volunteers 
were continually sallying forth to harass the enemy, and prepare them- 
selves for the decisive struggle, and expresses were riding back and 
forth on their foaming steeds, shouting to the eager listener the position 
of the army, as it approached nearer and nearer, or hastening in silence 
to the fort to discharge some embassy of mighty and mysterious import. 
The greater part of the peaceful inhabitants had fled from the scene of 
bloodshed and commotion, and many a gun and bayonet were glittering 
in the windows of their peaceful dwellings, thus converted into barracks 
for the use of the soldiery, or hospitals l()r the wounded. 

The mists of the morning had just rolled from the bosom of the 
waters, and the sun, struggling through the dense clouds, had ju.-t 
kissed the light foam upon its surface, when a tall, manly youth was 
seen approaching the guards on the northern bank of the Saranac with 
d hurried, anx'oiis, yet half-hesitating air. His fi)rm was slight and 
graceful in the extreme, and the partly military dress which he wore 
displayed to advantage its symmetry of proportion. He carried liis 
long rifle in one hand, and a massive old-fashioned sword was fastener 
by an embroidered belt to his side; his lips were firnily compressed, 
but his dark blue eyes were fixed upon the ground, as if some sad, sub- 
duing tlioiight had mingled with the sterner occupants of his mind 
As he approaelied the sentinels, each touched his caj) in respect, and he 
passed on unquestioned, until pausing at the gate of l)r Mentrevilie's 
10* 



122 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

cottage, ke slowly and softly raised the latch ; a curtain was drawn 
aside, a pale face peeped from the window, a light step was heard in the 
hall, and Emily stood upon the threshold. A year had wrought many 
changes in the person of this lovely girl; her form was taller and more 
womanly, but had lost much of its roundness; sorrow and midnight 
watching had faded the roses on her cheek, and tears had been its fre- 
q.uent visitants ; but her features, in their morning freshness and gorgeous 
bloom, had never seemed half so lovely. A flush sprang to lier face, 
and a light to her eye, as she stepped forward to meet the stranger, and 
extended her hand with a frank and aftecting simplicity. " Walter 1" 
"Emily !" His heart seemed too full for another word, and he raised 
his eyes to hers with a look of sad and apprehensive inquiry. 

" Oh! do not ask me," she replied, bursting into tears. " Oh ! that I 
could give 3'ou some gleam of comfort; that I could lay down my 
wortiiJess life for my sweet sister ! But it may not be, her frame grows 
hourly weaker, and her mind more strong ; she seems all soul — a spirit 
of Heaven fettered by the strong affections of earth ; but yet, Walter," 
she added, wiping the blinding tears from her eyes, " when I look upon 
her 1 can scarcely find it in my heart to grieve ; she seems so placid 
and so happy, like an infant returning to the arms of its parent: it is 
only when 1 look upon myself, and dear mother, and father, and you, 
and think how lonely, how desolate we shall be, that I feel the full 
weight o'f sorrow." 

"Desolate! desolate indeed !"' replied the young man, and unable 
longer to control his emotion he turned froin her, and leaning his liead 
upon the little column where Melanie had so often rested, gave vent to 
his excited feelings in a flood of tears. But a moment, and it was over 
— "lie had paid his tribute upon the alt-ar of sorrowing affection, and he 
awoke to the remembrance of sterner and more pressing duties. 

" Forgive me, Emily !" his cheek burning with shame at this transi- 
tory weakness — " surely the being for vi'hose early fate i have shed 
these unmanly tears must form my best apology ; yet I would not give 
way to sorrow upon a day like this, when every man should bring a cool 
head and a strong arm to the succour of his country." 

Emily's pale cheek turned yet more pallid, as she exclaimed, " W^al. 
ter, do you — have you indeed joined yourself with those doomed men ?" 
and her eye rested on the sword and rifle, which she had not before 
perceived. 

" And have I not, Emily ? Would you, would Melanie own me as 
lier — her friend ? Would she not blush to hear my shame ? Would 
not the blood of my grandsire, who fought so bravely in the Revolution, 
burn and scorch in the veins of his dastardly son, if I refused to join 
the brave band in defence of my native village, of my family, and of 
you, sweet Emily — and — and Melanie ?" 

" And if you are defeated" — 

He smiled encouragingly. 

" Why, then, Emily, we must yield like men, only with our lives. 
But we sliall not be defeated — we shall conquer ! Brave hearts and de- 
termined hands will do more in the hour of conflict than closed ranks 
and mere animal force." 

"And uhen is this dreadful hour to come? When do you expect 
the final attack?" 

* I should be tempted to conceal it, little trembler," replied the youth. 



REMAINS. 133 

** did I not feel that I have already too long neglected the chief object 
of my visit. From the reports of the expresses and scouts who have 
returned, we expect the enemy to-morrow morning, when we shall pro- 
bahly be assailed by land and water. This place will be tlie scene of 
bloodshed and coniusion : you cannot remain here — you must fly." 

"I know it, I know it 1" exclaimed Emily; "father is already gone 
in search of wagons to convey our effects ; but my sister, my poor 
sister, it seems ahnost sacrilege to disturb and perhaps hasten her part- 
ing moments by tliis precipitation; and the idea is so distressing, she 
longs so to die in her own old home. I can read it in every look, though 
she will not name it, lest we subject ourselves to danger for her sake. 
You know, Walter, we should have fled long since, as at the time of 
the former invasion, but ever since that short sojourn with strangers, 
she has seemed to iade more rapidly. It was breaking up all the sweet 
associations and habits which alone seem binding her to earth, and now, 
when she has so short a time to live, oi) ! it is a cruel, cruel task !" and 
the aflfcctionate girl wept faster than before. 

" I feel it all, dear Emily," said Walter, "but were it not more cruel 
that her gentle spirit should part amid the roar of cannon and t!ie shouts 
of the combatants? Then, if the British conquer, the last sounds which 
would meet her ear, would be those of insult and lawless triumph. No, 
no, it is impossible — you must fly. Would to God my duties did not 
call me for the space of two hours, that I might see you all in safety, 
and tlien return, with a light heart, to my post. But that cannot be; by 
especial favour I have obtained leave to make you this hasty visit, and, 
upon my return, the band of volunteers which I have joined proceed to 
the bank above the old bridge, the station deemed most advantageous 
for th«:s section of our small force. So you see, dear Emily, I cannot 
aid you ; but you say your father is gone — where, and with what hopes 
of success ?" 

" He started before daylight this morning, to obtain more easy con- 
veyance for our dear invalid than ou. old-fashioned family vehicle aflbrds, 
and wagons to convey the family and our most valuable effects ; but you 
know calamity and terror make us selfish, and the inhabittmts having 
fled, lie found not the proper means of conveyance for dear Mclanie in 
the village, and he hastened on some ten or twelve miles in the country 
to obtain them, and we do not expect him to return until sunset." 

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Walter, "the British forces will have 
advanced between him and our village, and he cannot return to you. 
Why did I not know this before ?" 

Scarcely had he spoken, when Mrs. Mentreville appeared on the 
threshold of the open door, at the porch of which they had been con- 
versing. Her figure was about the middle height and delicately form- 
ed, and her features retained the traces of much former beauty, but 
deep and unremitting anxiety had wasted a form naturally feeble, and 
an expression of calm but unutterable grief was seated in lier full dark 
eye. As she advanced, slie caught the expression of alarm in the face 
of young Selden and her daughter, and after the first silent greeting was 
over she inquired, " What were you saying, Walter ? Do not fear to 
tell me : nothing can alarm me now." 

In brief words Walter repeated his apprehensions that her husband 
-night be prevented from returning, and their flight would shortly be- 
V)me impossible. 



124 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" Then we will remain," replied Mrs. Mentreville firmly. " !f we 
arc successful, all is well ; if we fail, the British officers are gentlemen 
as well as soldiers — they liave mothers, wives, and daughters — they will 
protect us. I only fear the cftect of the excitement and turmoil upon 
our beloved sufferer." 
Walter sighed deeply. 

*'God will protect you, my dear madam. I wish /could trust more 
implicitly to the faith and honour of our enemies. But Dr. Mentreville 
may still return — all may yet be well. My term of absence is almost 
expired — can I not see Melanie ?" and he lowered his voice almost to a 
whisper, as if he feared to breathe aloud a name so sacred. 

The mother replied not, but silently taking the hand of the young 
man, she led him into the chamber of the dying girl. It seemed not 
like tiie abode of death and disease. The spirit, trembling, hovering 
within its boundaries, appeared to sanctify its resting place. There was 
no gloom, or darkness, or dreariness, for they found no place in the 
mind of Melanie, and why should they surround her frame without? 
She was all purity, gentleness, elevation — and an air of soft soothing me 
lancholy pervaded the scene of her last sufferings. The windows open- 
rns- upon the river were closed, for there were sights and sounds of too 
animating and warli!:e a nature to meet the acute eye or sensible ear 
of the dving maiden; but a casement beside her couch was thrown 
back, and the little flower-garden beneath it, which slie had so often 
tended, sent up the perfume of its last fading blossoms into her chamber, 
while tlie quivering poplar-trees waved and sighed iier requiem before 
it, and the luxuriant vines twined their small tendrils round the lattice. 
The sunlight, broken and softened by the green branches, fell in 
chastened splendour upon the floor, and tinged with a yet more heaven- 
ly radiance the pale, bright features of Blclanie. The couch had been 
placed beside the open casement, that, as she reclined upon its pillows, 
siie might yet look around upon the scenes so dear to her ; and well do 
those who witnessed remember the unearthly loveliness of her form and 
face, and the alternate sadness — a glorious hope in its expression, as she 
bade a mental farewell to the cherished scenes of earth, or looked for- 
ward to the blessed home which she was seeking. There was one by 
her side who watched with unwearied care and childish simplicity every 
look and motion. It was the little Alfred. She dearly loved the ardent 
and enthusiastic boy, and hi:^ young heait clung with all its ardour and 
enthusiasm to the one who most deeply awakened and cherished th.e in- 
cipient romance of his nature. Now that he beheld her thus rading 
from bef jre him, he hovered for ever by her bed-side, and hun;b, 'ike 
one entranced, upon each trembling accent of her voice. This deep and 
subdued affection had unlocked a new fbunt.iin in his little breast, and 
it flowed on, ovcrwiielming all the petty selfishness of childhood, and 
quenching all save the flnme of military ardour, which still burnt silent- 
ly and slowly, though subdued by this new and overpowering sentimen* 
of love for his gentle and intellectual sister. It was affecting to mark 
the struggle of these two passions in his young mind. At the sound of 
the distant cannon, the roll of the drum, or the shouting of the express 
as he rode furiously by, he would start from his seat, while his eye 
kindled, and his step involuntarily kept pace with the music; tlien, a» 
the thouglit of Melanie rushed over his mind, he would turn to the bed, 
take her hand gently in his own little palm, and whisper softly, " Sister, 



REMAINS. U5 

did it disturb you ? He was seated on his little stool by her side, cul- 
ling miniature soldiers from the little branches of a wild rose-tree, and 
watching^ every chang-e in his sister's face, when Mrs. Mentreville, Emi- 
ly, and \Vauer entered. Mehmic raised her head from tiie pillow on 
which she reclined, and extended her hand feebly as Selden approached. 

" Walter, tliis is kind," said she ; " I ftiared I should not see you 
before the engagement, and then we may never meet again." Tiie 
youth spoke not, but kissed the pale hand which rested in his own. Slie 
continued : " I see that you have joined them, that you are going forth 
to add one more brave heart and arm to our adventurous band. 1 knew 
it. Go, Waiter, go I and my blessing and the blessing of God go with 
you. If you conquer, you will find your reward in that peace which 
you have fought to bestov/ ; if you fall, it will bs in the pcrft)rmance of 
your duty, and you will share the grave of our bravest and best. Oh !" 
she added, clasping her hands, and her eyes kindling with enthusiasm, 
" Oh ! that the shout of victory miglit be the last earthly sound wafted 
to my spirit as it seeks the portal of a brighter world ! With the voice 
of lriun)ph floating around its pathway, how blessed might be its de- 
parture i" There was a moment's deep silence; every heart seemed too 
full for speech, till the soft sweet voice of Melanie again fell, like a bird 
whisper, upon the ears of tlie motionless group : " Walter, do not deceive 
me ; is it safe for my dear mother and sister to remain in this village, 
abandoned as it will be to the soldiery in case of defeiit? God only 
knows l)ow deeply I have longed to breathe my last in this dear home 
of my infancy, but, for the love of mercy, let not this idle fancy endan- 
ger the safety or comfort of those I love dearer than myself." Walter 
replied that it was deemed necessary to fly, and that her father had 
gone in search of the easiest means of conveyance for her. She sighed 
deeply. "My own dear father! — But I shall not need him." Imme- 
diately rallying licr spirits, while the faint sunlight smile, so peculiar to 
herself, played over her features, she again extended her hand. " Let 
me not detain you, Walter, from tlie performance of those duties which 
now devolve upon you. Go I When I hear the shouts and tumult of 
the battle, I will pray for you, if on earth — I will watch over you, if 
released from its fetters. Oh I do not look so sad ! If I saw not the 
mournful faces of those I love, my soul feels so happy I could almost 
think it Paradise. When I am gone, remember me as a dream, a 
moonlight vision which never formed itself into reality till it had fled ; 
as a being whose shadow has flitted over tlie past, whose life is only in 
the future. I have only two hopes, tv.'o wishes upon earth ; one for my 
country, the otlier — " Siie paused, and gazed fondly upon Walter and 
Emily as they stood beside lier. The quick glance of Emily caught 
her meaning, and, throwing herself upon Melanie's bosom, she looked 
imploringly in her face. " Fear not, my sweet blossom," whispered 
Blelanie, " I cannot, will not say aught which you could wish unsaid." 
Then turning to Selden, she said, "Farewell; may God protect and 
prosper you, my brother .'" 

The tears rushed to the young man's eyes as he cast one long, mourn- 
ful look upon (he delicate and spiritual features, and kissed the smail 
wan fingers which he again pressed, but mastering his emotion with a 
strong effort, he turned from the room, and paused a moment in the 
hall, ere he could collect sufficient courage to leave the spot which con- 
tained a being so lovely (as he feared) /or ever. As he stood thus, with 



126 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

his hand upon his brow and his eyes bent upon the floor, a shght noise 
ijehind him attracted his attention. He turned ; it was little Alfred. He 
had stolen unperceived from the room, and was examining- Walter's 
rifle with looks of earnest and admiring attention, and too much ab- 
Borbed to be conscious of the owner's presence ; he was, in fancy, load- 
ing-, presenting, firing, and performing all the military evolutions of 
which he was master; when he at length perceived Walter, he sprang- 
to his side, and raising his briglit face, exclaimed in an eager whisper — 

" Oh ! ^^r. Seldcn ! Mr. Selden ! take me with you to the battle ; I 
will not trouble you ; I will load your gun, and I will take my little 
bow and arrow, and fight as the Indians do ; and I will make the British 
run — do, do — take me 1" 

" Will you not be afraid, my dear boy ?" said Walter, scarcely con- 
scious that he spoke. 

A smile of contempt curled the boy's red lip. 

" Afraid I what honourable soldier was ever afraid ?" and forgetting 
his caution one moment, he laughed aloud. The spark had been awa- 
kened in his little bosom, and it required all the soft dews of feeling and 
reflection to quench its flam-e. 

" Hush, hush, Alfred 1" said Selden ; " would you leave your sister, 
3'our dear sister, and perhaps never see her more ?" The boy looked 
down ; his heart swelled, and his lip trembled ; but his desire was still 
strong. " Your fatlier is gone, and would you leave your mother and 
sisters defenceless? What will become of them if the British conquer?" 

Here was a double motive ; here were united the two ruling passions, 
and he clapped his hands in the eagerness of his joy. 

" Yes, yes, I will stay and protect them ; and mother shall call me 
her little soldier, and sister Enmiy v/ill not be afraid, and no one shall 
touch dear Melanie." And he stole back contented to the stool by his 
bedside, to indulge his young fancy, in dreams of war, and victory^ and 
defence. 

Walter departed ; and in a short time after the sound of martial 
music, of the drum and fife, and the trampling of many feet, disturbed 
the silence of Melanie's chamber. Mrs. Mentreville and Emily cast an 
anxious glance upon tlie apparently sleeping sufferer, and softly raised the 
curtain of the window. It was the band of volunteers marching out to 
their post. It was mostly composed of the young men of the village, 
led by an older and more experienced commander. Their hearts were 
beating high with hope and expectation, and they kept pace with a 
proud and even step to the lively national air which swelled in loud 
strains upon the breeze. As they passed the house of Dr. Mentreville, 
many an eye was turned, and many a glance fixed eagerly upon the 
beautiful face of Emily, as she leaned from the window ; but she knew 
it not, she saw, she tiiought of but one. The rest passed before her like 
a colourless picture, and she beheld the form of Walter Selden, vivid 
and distinct from the pageantry around him. His eye caught hers, 
fixed with such an earnest and speaking gaze upon his features I Then 
first flashed the truth like an electric spark through his mind — the idea 
tliat that young and guileless maiden might feel in him an interest 
deeper than that of a sister or a friend. A burning flush rose to liis 
theeks and brow: he bowed low; a white handkerchief fluttered from 
the window, and it was again closed. All had j)usstd in an int-tant, but 
it was one of those which contained more of existence than many a 



REMAINS. 12? 

long-, long year : in that one look, unseen save by its object, the uncon 
scious girl had betrayed the secret most dear, most sacred to her heart; 
the one wliich she had fancied, had believed, no grief, no mental torture 
could force her to reveal. She turned from the window, hid her blush- 
ing face in her hands, and burst into tears. 

"Come hither, Emily," said Melanie, and opened her arms, while 
the weeping girl threw herself into them and sobbed upon her sister's 
bosom. Melanie clasped iier hands over the silken tresses of the young 
mourner, and raised her head as in prayer. Oh ! that I had a purer 
pencil than those of earth to paint the forms, the expression, of those 
two lovely beings I Some hovering angel might have transferred that 
scene to liis immortal tablets, and laid it up among the records of heaven, 
as one bright spot shining forth from the dark annals of misery and 
crime. Emily, the type of all earth's loveliest, warm with its noblest 
passions, all the generous impulses of youth, weeping upon the bosom 
of a dying sister; and that sister, forgetful of lierself, of all beside, pray- 
ing for the dear one, while her face beamed with all tlie hallowed love, 
of the gentle compassion of a purified being, and her dark eyes kindled 
with a glow reflected only from the heaven they sought. The day 
rolled on, that long, long dreary day ; the village was still in the tumult 
of preparation; llie expresses rode by more furious than ever; the 
British forces were rapidly approaching the village, but still the father. 
\he husband came not, and fears for his safety mingled with the agony 
of his helpless family. Mrs. Mentrcville was a woman of acutely deli- 
cate and sensitive feelings, but they were mastered and controlled by a 
firm judgment, a strong and independent mind. She had long seen, 
with that anguish which a mother only can know, the certain but 
gradual decline of her beloved Melanie. 

This child had been her favourite. There was something in the 
pure and lofty enthusiasm of her character which touched a responsive 
chord in her own bosom. What others liad never seen, or only inarked 
as the idle fancies of a romantic girl, revealed to her the inmost recesses 
of a nature composed of deep sensibilities, quiet, unobtrusive affections, 
and lofty aspirations after spmething higher and holier than earth. She 
had studied her carefully ; *shc loved her to idolatry, and she only who 
aas nurtured, who has wept over the death-bed of such a child, can un- 
dersland the bitterness of grief which converted her whole soul into a 
fountain of agony. She saw how deeply it distressed Melanie to behold 
her sorrow, and many an hour banished herself from her bedside, that 
spot most sacred upon earth, that she might drink unperceived from the 
darkness of her aliliction, and in solitude, and silence, struggle to sub- 
due her heart into accordance with the will of her Heavenly Father. 

Night drew on; the sky, which had been clear, became suddenly 
overcast ; the sunbeams no longer played upon the quivering poplars, 
or sparkled gladly in the blue depths of the Saranac, and a dark thun- 
der-gust rolled in black volumes from the west. The wing of the storm, 
as it slowly unfolded in the l.eavens, cast a deep leaden shadow on the 
waves of the Cliamplain ; and the white foam gathered upon the crest 
of each receding billow, as it rolled witli an angry murmur to the shore. 
The thunder growled faintly in the distance; pale flashes of light burst 
at intervals from the rent clouds, and large threatening drops tell with 
their sullen patter on the roof. Every thing betokened the approach of 
a. fearful, though transient storm ; and a fervent prayer for the safety of 



128 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 

her husband burst from the lips of Mrs. Mentreville, as she closed the 
door of the cottage and returned to the chamber of Melanie. As the 
tempest strengtliened, the lightning streamed in with bioad and livid 
flashes, and the tiiundcr rolled on its tremendous pathway ; each crash 
more loud and terrific than the last. Mrs. Mentreville, sealed on Me- 
lanie's couch, supported her head upon her bosom, and an expression of 
deep awe rested upon her pale features. Emily knelt by tlie bedside 
and concealed her lace in its drapery, and even tlie stout heart of little 
Alfred quailed, as peal after peal burst and gleamed above tliem and 
around them. He lisped no word of fear, but grasped the hand of Me- 
lanie in his own, gazed wistfully upon her placid and spiritual features, 
as if something whispered within him that no danger could assail, no 
bolts from the artillery of heaven descend upon a form and soul so hea- 
venly. No terror, no dread was on the face of Melanie ; resting upon 
her mother's bosom, she gazed on the dark rolling masses of the tem- 
pest-cloud, and trembled not at the livid flames, or the pealings of the 
loud-voiced thunder; her soul seemed hursting from her eyes in one 
long gaze of solemn adoration ; her spirit was lifted above the warring 
elements; it was casting its burden of deep and silent worship at the 
footstool of the Almighty. The storm for an instant paused: tiie thun- 
der-peals died away in a low muttering growi, and an awful silence 
reigned in the heavens and on the earth ; the angel of the tempest had 
retired 'neath the veil of blackness, to gather the scattered thunderbolts 
in his hand, and to wreatlie the winged lightnings on his brov/. Again 
he came upon his wild career — on, on, in more terrific majesty ; the 
dark cloud parted with a fearful chasm, while from its bosom poured a 
sheet of flame, broad, livid, terrible, and a fierce crash, .is of a shattered 
world, pealed along the heavens. x\ low shriek burst from the lips ot 
Emily, and Alfred pressed his sister's hand with a convulsive energy. 
The grasp recalled Melanie's wandering senses; she drew him closer 
to her bosom, and whispered in accents low but distinct, heard like an 
angel's murmur amid the roaring of the storm, " Fear not, my little 
brother; it is the same voice which breathes in melody am.ong the 
flowers of spring; the same hand which paints the rainbow and tlie rose. 
Fear not, it is your Father and your God ! He sendcth forth the spirit of 
his love, and heaven and earth are bathed in the fount;:in of its glory, 
he stretcheth oat the arm of his power and the hills tremble and are 
shaken. Yea," she added, clasping her hands and looking upwards 
with an expression of fervent solemnity, "yea ; thou only art great who 
covercst thyself with light as with a garment ; who stretchest out the 
heavens like a curtain; who makes the clouds thy chariot; whowalkcst 
upon tiie wings of the wind." 

It was midnight. Tlie storm had departed as it oame ; the wind 
sighed mournfully, yet sweet amid the dripping branches ; the black 
masses rolled from the firmament, and the moon, struggling through 
their gloom, cast her feeble and trembling beams on the still agitated 
waters ; the waves rose and fell with a faint wailing murmur, like the sobs 
of a weeping child ; and the hearts of the anxious mourners seemed to beat 
in unison with their sad cadence. A taper was burning on the hearth 
in Melanie's chamber, but the curtain was withdrav.'n, and the jiure 
cold rays of the moon trembled faintly upon a being, pure and heavenly 
OS themselves. She slept — in the hush of that midnight hour, surround- 
ed by those best loved on earth, she slept. Oh ! the ])cace, the unearth- 



RExMAlNS. 129 

ly beauty ot tiiat sleep. Her head lay back upon the pillow, lier bright 
dark hair shaded witli its rich tresses the exquisite features of her face; 
the serenity of heaven seemed resting on her broad, pale brow ; her dark 
eyelids lay motionless on their snowy pillow, and nought could reveal 
to the beholder that he gazed on an inhabitant of earth, save the brilliant 
liush which niantled upon her cheek, as if death, fearing utterly to de- 
stroy a work so beautiful, had breathed a deeper crimson on the fresh 
rose of health, and placed it 'mid the lilies of disease. Emily was 
kneeling, beside her, her face bathed in tears, and her eyes now bent 
with a wistful sadness upon her sleeping sister, now raised as in prayer 
to Heaven ; a petition seemed trembling upon her lips, but it would 
v;ing its way no farther ; sh.e dared not pray for fetters to enchain the 
struggling spirit ; she could not even wish to recall the fluttering priso- 
ner to its cage of clay, and the prayer died unuttered on her tongue. 
Then her mind wandered far away from that shaded room and its mid- 
night stillness. She saw the morning dawn above the opposing ranks ; 
she heard the shouts of the commanders, the sliarp report of the rifles, 
and the deafening roar of the cannon, and she saw one form amid the 
thousands, and, as v/hen she last bciield it, she saw that form alone ; she 
marked his every movement, and when her quick fancy beheld the 
"leaden deatii," flying around him, her breatii was checked convulsive- 
ly, and the colour went and came upon her cheek, and then with the 
sv.?irtness and waywardness of tliought, her mind returned to their last 
meeting, their last look ; and her face became one burning flush when 
siie thought how rnucii, how all loo much that look betrayed. As she 
raised her head from the counterpane in which it had been buried, her 
eyes again rested upon tlie features of Mel mie, and still more deeply 
did she blush at her ov.n selfishness in thinking of aught beside the 
cherished sufferer and the duty slic owed to her beloved mother. Where 
was that mother now ? Why was not sAe too bending over the slum- 
bers of the dying one ? Oh ! had you asked her bleeding heart, an 
answer had been poured forth in tones of the bitterest agony which the 
hand of sorrovv^ could draw forth from its broken strings. Grief — grief, 
too deep for utterance, too violent for restraint, had driven her from the 
bedside of IVlelanie. With a burning brain and throbbing nerves, she 
Jiad stolen unnoticed from the side of Emily, and stepped forth upon the 
broad piazza, to breathe for one moment the coolness of the midnight 
air; it soothed, it refreshed her, and throwing herself upon the seat be- 
neath Melanie's window, a burst of tears relieved her agitated feelings. 
The scene was solemn, and to the reflecting mind it was one of deep 
interest, for the shade of an eventful morrow seemed hanging darkly 
over it ; torches were glancing to and fro in the distant fort; boats were 
crossing and recrossing the river ; the bridges were destroyed, and the 
voice of the sentinel was heard at intervals, as he loudly demanded the 
countersign from some belated traveller. In addition to her other cares, 
Mrs. Mentreville was now seriously alarmed for the safety of her bus- 
band : at every casual footstep, at every shadow which obscured the 
moonlight, she started from her seat, and an anxious" is it he?" trem- 
bled unconsciously upon her lips. In the silent" solemnity of that mid- 
night hour lier mind reverted to her ovrn early days, when loving and 
beloved, she had first entered that humble cottage, a youthful and happy 
tjoife, and when after the lapse of years she had still found herself an 
adored and cherished mo'Jter, the centre of all the social affections, the 
11 



130 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

parent tree which shadowed, nourished, and supported the l■ret^ll youu^' 
tendrils that twined around it; now tlicre was a deep, deep void within her 
lieart. Death liad breathed upon her paradise ; lie had laid his cold 
hand upon those delicate vines; he had torn thein asunder; had gat^her- 
ed all but three young blossoms to twine around and Vv'ither on his 
clay-cold brow. Her alFection for the dead was now transferred with 
tenfold ardour to the living; the buoyancy and hope of youth was gone; 
but love, a mother's love, can never perish, and her spirit, chastened and 
subdued by the hand of affliction, clung to Melanie as to some guardian 
angel, some being of superior mould, who seemed unfitted for the cares 
and buffetings of life, and yet foreboding lancy had never durcd to 
whisper she could die ; and now the dreadful summons liad arrived ; 
she saw it in the flushed and fevered check, the throbbing pulse, the eye 
of piercing brilliancy ; she heard it in the tremulous accents of her be- 
loved one, they mingled all the sweetness of heaven, and all tlie sad- 
ness of earth; and the memory of those tones stole over her mind like a 
soothing murmur, as she buried her face in lier hands, and tlie tears 
stole silently between them. She was startled from her revery by a 
sound like the distant trampling of "liorses' feet ; she turned— the sound 
came nearer—" It is he 1" and she rushed down the steps of the piazza, 
and with her hand upon the gate leaned anxiously over the little en- 
closure. She scarcely breathed. It was a horseman riding furiously 
down the little hill to the right, and as he passed in the moonliglit, hope 
could deceive her no longer ; it was not he, it was the express ; he 
dashed along through the row of sentinels, and waving his cap in tiic 
air, his hoarse voice broke painfully upon the silence of the night. 

" The enemy ! the enemy !" he shouted, " they have come on by 
forced marches; they are now encamped within two miles; they will 
be here by daybreak"," and he dashed on, arousing tiie sleeping echoes, 
till the trampling of his horse's feet, and the tones of his stentorian 
voice were alike lost in the distance. Mrs. Mentreville slowly and me- 
chanically returned to the piazza, and a thousand agonizing thoaghts 
swept like a burning torrent through her brain. The British army was 
rapidly approaching ; the conflict v.ould probably take place at day- 
break ; her husband had gone to secure them a place of refuge, but he 
returned not; perhaps he was a prisoner in the British camp, and she, 
a helpless woman, with one young and timid daughter, and one, so dear 
a one, just dying, was left alone in the deserted village, exposed to the 
cruel insults of the British soldiery, should they conquer, and to all the 
terror and tumult of a desperate conflict even should they fail. Oh I 
that was a night of agony, and never, through all the vicissitudes of 
after life, did one thought, one feeling then endured fade from the volume 
of her memory. As tlie thoughts of danger and the necessity of exer- 
tion passed through her mind, she wiped the tears from her eyes, and 
whispered within lierself, "This weakness w^ill not do; I have a part 
to perforin. I am the only guardian of my three dear ones; we cannot 
fly, and if the British conquer, as I fear they must, I will appeal for 
protection to their officers I they li^^ve wives and children." * • 



POETICAL REMAINS, 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Mother ! thou bid'st me touch the lyre, 
And wake its sweetest tones for thee ; 

To kindle fancy's dying fire, 
And light the torch of poetry. 

Mother ! how sweet the word, how pure, 
As if from heaven the accents came; 

If aught can rouse the dormant soul, 
It is that cherish'd, honour'd name. 

Deep in the heart's recess it dwells; 

It lives with being's earliest dawn; 
With reason's light expands and swells, 

And dies with parting life alone. 

Mother ! 'tis childhood's first essay, 

Breathed in its trembling tones of love ; 

It lights the heart, through life's long way, 
And points to holier worlds above ! 

It is a name, whose mighty spell 
Can draw the chain'd affections forth, 

Can rouse tlie feelings from their cell, 
And give each purer impulse birth. 

Then will I wake my sleeping muse. 

And strive to breathe my thoughts in song, 

Though sweetest strains must fail to speak 
The heart's affections, deep and strong. 



PRIDE AND MODESTY. 

Just where a wild and rapid stream 
RoU'd back its waves in seeming pride, 

Flowers of each softly varying hue 
Were sweetly blooming, side by side. 

Shaded by many a bending tree, 

Their glowing cups with dew-drops fill'd, 

Nature's fair daughters blushing stood, 
And all their fragrant sweets distill'd 



(131) 



132 MliS MAllGARLyr DAVIDSON 

Oh, 'twas n wild and lovely spot, 

Wliicli well might seem a spirit's home ! 

A lone retreat, a noiseless grot, 

Where earth's rude blasts could never come. 

Within a broad and open glade, 
A tulip spj-cad its gaudy hue, 

While, 'neath the myrtle's clustering shade, 
A sweetly-drooping lily grew. 

As the light zephyrs o'er them swept, 
And heigiUen'd many a rosy glow, 

A strange, deep murmur round them crept, 
Like distant music, wild and low. 

'T was the gay tulip's fragrant breath. 
Which many an answering echo woke. 

As to her lowly neighbour, thus, 

With proud and haughty mien, she spoke : 

" Away ! frail trembling flower ! nor dare 
To droop beside my glittering form I 

Behold how bright my garments are. 
And mark each sweetly varying charm ' 

" Then hie thee to some lonely nook, 
Nor show thy pallid features here ; 

Go, murmur to some babbling brook. 
Where like thyself each scene is drear ! 

" Hast thou assurance thus to gaze 
On one who nature's self beguiles ? 

Hence ! haste thee hence ! and hide that face. 
Where parent nature never smiles." 

She ceased — a sad, sweet whispering rose, 
Which thrill'd the zephyrs list'ning ear ; 

Soft as an angel's gentlest tone, 
Too heavenly for tliis mortal sphere. 

'T was the pale lily's silvery voice, 
Which rose in low and thrilling tone. 

Like breath of wild Eolian lyre, 

Moved by the wind-god's tendcrest moan . 

*' Great queen !" .the lovely gem replied, 
" I view thy charms, I own their power, 

And void of envy, shame, or pride, 
Admire thy beauties of an hour. 

*' Full well I know my pallid brow 
Can never match the hues of thine; 

Nor my white robes the colours wear, 
Which on thy dazzling garments shine. 

" But the same hand hath form'd us both ; 

And heaven-born nature smiled as sweet 
As on thy form, when the low flower 

Was peeping from its green retreat. 



I'OETICAL REMAINS. 133 

*' Here v/as I planted ! let me here 

Still live in purity and peace; 
The lily's eye shall never weep 

To gain the tulip's gaudy grace. 

" But oh, forget not, 'mid the pomp 

Of earthly kingdom, pride, and joy, 
That boasted beauty must decay, 

And withering age thy pleasures cloy. 

"Receive the hly's kind advice, — 

Retire from scenes of public life, 
And pass thy days in solitude, 

Apart from vanity and strife." 

While the sweet murmur past away, 

The stately rose as umpire came ; 
The lily ehunn'd her proud survey, 

The lordly tulip bent for shame. 

In accents bland, but nobly firm. 

The queen-like fiow'ret soon replied. 
In tones which charm'd the tender flower, 

And humbled more the tulip's pride. 

" Come hither, pure and lovely one. 

With thee no garden plant can vie ; 
Not e'en the tulip's gaudy hues 

Match with thy stainless, spotless dye. 

" Come to my bosom, emblem fair 

Of heavenly virtue's fairer form ! 
Here let me learn each modest grace, 

While here I hush each wild alarm. 

" Come to my bosom ! what so pure, 

So lovely as a modest one. 
Who flies from folly's glittering lure, 

And shuns the bright meridian sun ! 

"Let the proud tulip glitter still, 

Robed in her scarf of varying hue; 
Alone 'neath nature's eye we'll rest, 

Cheer'd by her smile, and nurtured by her dew." 



VERSIFICATION OF THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 

My shepherd is the faithful Lord, 
I shall not want, I trust his word ; 
He lays me down in pastures green. 
He leads me by the lake serene ; 
Comforts my soul, and points me on 
To pure religion's holy shrine. 
11* 



134 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

I wander through the vale of death, 
Yet lie supports me still; 

He will receive my dying- breath 
If I perform his will. 

Even in the presence of my foes 
He doth a meal of plenty spread; 

My cup with blessings overflows, 
With oil he docs anoint my head. 
1831. 



TO BROTHER L . 

The vessel lightly skims the wave, 
And bounds across the waters blue, 

Near shores where trees luxuriant spread, 
And roses wildly blooming grew. 

Yon islands see ! so fair and bright, 
Like gems upon the azure sea ; 

The waters dance like forms of light. 
And waft my brother dear from me. 

1831. 



FOR MAMMA. 

The rippling stream serenely glides, 
And rising meets the swelling tides ; 
The fleeting lights of heaven around 
Shine brightly o'er the vast profound. 

The moon hath hid her silvery face, 
So mark'd with beauty and with grace, 
Majestic when she rides on high, 
A gem upon the azure sky ! 

My thoughts, oh Lord, then turn to thee, 
Of what thou art and I shall be; 
Thy outstretch'd wings around me spread. 
And guard with love my hapless head. 
1831. 



TO MAMMA. 

Farewell, dear mother, for awhile 
I must resign thy plaintive smile; 
May angels Vv'atch thy couch of wo, 
And joys unceasing round thee flov;. 
May the almighty Father spread 
His sheltering wings above thy head. 
It is not long that we must part. 
Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 135 

Remeniber, oh remember mo, 
Unceasing is my love for thee !_ 
When death shall sever earthly ties. 
When thy loved form ail senseless lies. 

Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
And roam through wide eternity ; 
Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
And count the brilliant stars of even. 

Farewell, dear mother, for awhile 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of woe. 
And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
1S31 

TO A FLOWER. 

The blighting hand of winter 

Has laid thy glories low ; 
Oh, where is all thy beauty ? 

Where is thy freshness now? 

Summer has pass'd away. 

With every smiling scene. 
And nature in decay 

Assumes a mournful mien. 
How like adversity's rude blast 

Upon the helpless one, 
When hope's gay visions all have passed, 

And to oblivion gone. 

Yet winter has some beauties left, 

Which cheer my heart forlorn ; 
Nature is not of charms bereft, 

Tliough shrouded by the storm. 

I see the sparkling snow ; 

I view the mountain tops ; 
I mark the frozen lake below. 

Or the dark rugged rocks. 

How truly grand the scene! 

The giant trees are bare. 
No fertile meadows intervene. 

No hillocks fresh and fair; 
But the cloud-capp'd mountains rise, 

Crown'd with purest whiteness, 
And mingle with the skies. 

That shine with azure brightness. 

And soUtude, that friend so dear 

To each reflecting mind, 
Her residence has chosen here 
To soothe tlie heart refined. 
1831. 



136 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



STANZAS. 



Roll on, roll on, bright orb of day ; 

Roll on, thou beauteous queen of even* 
Ye stars, that ever twinkling play, 

And sweetly grace the azure heaven. 

Roll on, until tliy God's command 

Shall rend the sky and tear the earth , 

Till he stretch forth his miglity liand 
To check the voice of joyous mirth. 

He spread the heavens as a scroll, 

He made the sea, he form'd tlie world j 

The heavens again shall backward roll, 
And mountains from their base be hurl'd. 

He form'd the lovely verdant green, 
And aught of fair tliat e'er has been ; 
These beauties all shall pass ajvay, 
And in one shapeless ruin lay. 

But God in his glory, the God of the sky, 
Will continue tlirough endless eternity ; 
For ever untainted, all hol}'^ and pure, 
His love and his mercy shall ever endure. 



ESSAY ON NATURE. 

How just, how- pure, how holy is the great Creator of the universe ! 
When I gaze upon all the wonders of nature, the rippling stream, the dis- 
tant mountain, the rugged rock, or the gently sloping hill, my mind 
turns to the first Great Cause of all ; the Author of this mingled "beauty, 
grandeur, and simplicity. God made this beautiful world for us, that 
we might be happy, and why are \vc not so ? Because we do not seek 
real happiness. We are striving to obtain toorldly pleasure ; but what 
is that, compared with the happiness of a child of God ? He feels and 
knows that his Saviour is ever dear; he weeps over his past follies with 
a sweet consciousness that they are all forgiven ; that the kind Shepherd 
has brought back his lost sheep to the fold. He trusts in the goodness 
of his Creator. His faith is firm in tlie blessed Saviour who died for 
him ; he has charity for all, love for all. Such is tlie Christian I His 
earthly sorrows seem light, for his thoughts arc continually upon his 
just Preserver. What is man, frail, feeble man, but a flower of the 
field, that fades away with the rude blast of the autumnal storm! How 
infinite the love which sustains him I 

Plattsbnrnh, 1832. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 137 

VERSES WRITTEN WHEN NINE YEARS OF AGE. 

HOME. 

Yonder orb of dazzling light 
* Sinks beneath tlie robe of night, 
And the moon so sweetly pale, 
Waits to lift her silver veil. 
One by one the stars appear, 
Glittering in the heavenly spiiere, 
And sparkling in their bright array, 
Welcome in the close of day. 
But home, that sacred, pure retreat, 
Where dwells my heart in all that's sweet. 
And my own stream, where oft I 've stray'd, 
And mark'd the beams that o'er it play'd, 
Is far away, o'er the waters blue. 
Far from mv fondly straining view. 
1832. 



THE MAJESTY OF GOD. 

With the liglrtning his throne, and the thunder his voice, 

He rides through the troubled sky ; 
He bids all his angels in heaven rejoice. 

And thunders his wrath from on high ! 
"Or the wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly rides," 
O'er the heavens, the earth, and the ocean he strides ; 
The breath of his nostrils the lightning's flame, 
AH nature re-echoes his powerful name ! 



FROM THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 

Why is my bosom fiU'd with fear. 

And why cast down my troubled soul ? 

Is not thy God, thy Saviour nerfi-. 
And will he not thy fate control ? 

How mighty is my Saviour's hand, 

How powerful his word. 
And how can I, a sinful worm, 

Address him as my Lord ? 

Jehovah sends his mighty breath 

Across the placid sea; 
The foaming waters proudly whirl, 

As longing to be free. 

Deep calleth unto deep aloud. 

The raging billows follow thee , 
Thou send'st the roaring waves abroad, 

Which rush o'erwhelminar over me. 



138 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON, 

Yet at the great I Am's command, 
For me, the object of his care, 

The shouting waters silent stand ; 
He still shall listen to my prayer. 
J 833. 



HYMN OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Welcome, oh welcome, god of day I 

Thy presence gives us peace ! 
All hail, eternal, glorious king, 

Thy light shall never cease ! 

Transcendent Sun-! oh list to one 
Whose heart is fill'd with love; 

Let the sweet airs lift liigh our prayers 
To thee our God above. 

Pure orb of light ! resplendent, bright ; 

Oh, who may cope with thee ? 
And who may dare to view thee there, 

And never bend the knee ? 

Before thy ray the guilty flee. 

And dread thy cheerful beam. 
Lest tiiy fierce eye their crimes descry, 

And chill hope's trembling gleam. 

To thee we bow, for on thy brow 

Is majesty impress'd, 
Glory thy shroud, thy throne the cloud, 

Which circles o'er thy breast. 

The blushing flower will own thy power ; 

It blooms alone for thee ; 
And though so frail, oh hear my wail. 

My blessed guardian be ! 

When the first ray of brilliant day 

Illumes the hill, the plain. 
The songsters raise a hymn of praise, 

Oh, listen to my strain. 

When thy loved form, which braves the storm, 

In ocean disappears. 
One mournful cry ascends on high, 

The night is spent in tears. 

But lest we mourn for thy return. 

And pine away in grief, 
The orb of night supplies thy light, 

And gives us sweet relief. 

Then on my head, Eternal ! shed 

Thy warmest, purest beam. 
And to my heart content impart. 

With gratitude serene. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 139 

Then, when, at last, my sorrows past, 

With thee in hg-ht I'll roam, 
And by thy side securely ride, 

Thy bosom for my home. 
1833. 



ENIGMA. 



Sometimes I grace the maiden's brow, 
And lend her check a brighter glow ; 
Or grim and strong, secure the wall 
Of many a castle gate from all. 
The palace boasts me always there. 
To guard the walls and bless the fair ; 
The meanest cot I ne'er disdain. 
Yet guard the portals of the brain. — Lock. 



TO A LITTLE COUSIN AT CHRISTMAS. 

Mv dear little George, oh did you but know 
How delighted I'd be could I meet with you now ; 
Oh could I but print on your forehead a kiss. 
To thy Margaret the moment were unalloy'd bliss. 
Thy flowers and acorns I've cherished with care. 
And to me they have secm'd more than lovely and fair, 
For thoughts of the friends I have left far behind, 
And sweet recollections will crowd on my mind, 
As I gaze on the tokens presented by you. 
And the sweet little letter you've written me too ; 
I fancy I see thee on bright Christmas day, 
With Kitty and mother all sportive at play. 
Admiring the bounty St. Nicholas gave 
To the boy who was worthy his counsel so grave. 
Oh could I but join thee, my beautiful boy. 
In thy holiday pastimes and innocent joy I 
Is " Aunty" still working on bonnets and capes ? 
Or examining flowers of all sizes and shapes? 
Does Aiken's Collection still lie on her lap. 
While her fingers are plaiting some rufiie or cap ? 
Is thy " dear little mother" stiil lively and gay, 
Pleasing and pleased, as when I came away ? 
And Annie and Kitty, and grandfather too? 
But 'tis time, my dear George, I bade you adieu. 
Tell uncle, and brother, and all whom I love, 
My letters alone my affection must prove. 
1833. 



140 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

ON READING CHILDE HAROLD. 

The rainbow's bright and varying- hue, 
Mix'd with tiie soft celestial blue, 
The brightest, fairest stars of night. 
Which shed their radiance pure and bright, 
If mingled in a wreath, would be 
Too poor an offering for thee. 

The morning sun should deck thy brow, 
Now dazzling bright, and softening now ; 
But night's dark veil too oft doth cloud 
The brow winch genius should enshroud, 
For vice has set her impress there, 
Mingled with virtues pure and fair. 
1833. 

INVOCATION. 

Oh, thou almighty Lord of heaven and earth ! ^ 
From whom the world and man derive their birth, 
My youthful heart with sacred love inspire, 
And fill my soul with wild poetic fire. 

And oh, thou pure, transcendent muse of lieaven. 
Descend upon an airy cloud of even, 
With thy bright fingers touch the trembling chord. 
And let it echo to my Saviour, Lord. 
1833. 

CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Hail to salvation's brilliant morn. 
Hail to the dawn of joy and peace. 

When God's supreme, almighty power. 
Bade all our pains and sorrows cease. 

Ye angels, sing your sweetest songs, 
And strike anew each golden lyre ; 

Let him to whom the praise belongs 
The sacred strain inspire. 

The day the star of promise shone 

Bright in yon eastern sky. 
It bore redemption in its light, 

A herald from on high. 

It led a wise and chosen band. 
Who writhed beneath the rod 

Of Herod's proud and kingly hand, 
To seek their infant God. 

From his high throne in realms of bliss, 
Where love was in every breast. 

From his glorious home he came to this. 
And in his descent we are blest. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 141 

For man's unconquerable pride, 

That we salvation mig^ht obtain, 
This blessed Saviour bled and died, — 

And has tiie sacrifice been vain? 

Oh Jesus, fill'd with sacred fire, 

May 1 devote this life to thee; 
May love my youthful heart inspire, 
And glow to all eternity! 
1833. 



EVENING. 

' Tvt^AS evening-, and the sun's last ray 
Was beaming o'er the azure sky ; 

Earth bade farewell to cheerful day, 

Which sinks beneath the mountains high. 

Those cloud-tipp'd mountains soared afar 
In that bright heaven of blue, 

And seem'd to reach yon eastern star, 
Which glittering you might view. 

Between its banks yon rippling stream 

Unruffled glides along, 
In curling eddies onward ficw 

Rocks, brandies, trees among. 

Beyond it raged the troubled sea, 

Which drew aloft its wave, 
And ever furious, ever dark. 

The Sky it seem'd to brave. 

Hovi^ strangely, sweetly blended there 

The beautiful and grand, 
The awful with the prospect fair, 

The terrible and bland I 

Behold that tall majestic rock, 
O'erhanging yonder stream ; 
See, at its frowning foot is seen 
The pale moon's silvery beam. 
1833. 



ENIGMA. 

In nature it holds a conspicuous part. 
It lives in the ocean, and softens the heart ; 
The supporter of angels, in heaven it dwells. 
And the number of demons reluctantly swells, 
'T is a part of our faith, and it lives with the dead, 
'Tis devoid of religion, yet always in dread ; 
In the wavering candle all brightly it glows, 
And with the meandering streamlet it flows. 



142 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Without it the name of the warrior were lost, 
And the seaman would sink, on the wide ocean tost. 
And now, my dear friend, if you guess what it means. 
You may have the enigma for nought hut your pains. 
1833. 



TO THE DEITY. 

Almighty God ! Father of heaven and earth, 
Who form'd, from 'midst the vast expanse of chaos, 
This spacious world — omnipotent and holy ! 
Before thee angels bow ! — the countless host 
Of those tliat praise thee, and that hover round 
Thy sacred throne, shrink from the blaze of light. 
And shadow with their wings their beaming brows. 
Lest, on their senses thy transcendent glories 
Burst with a stunning power, and absorb them 
In one full flood of brilliance. 
Oh thou ! whose ever-seeing eye can pierce 
The misty shades of night, and penetrate 
The deep recesses of tiie human heart; 
Parent of earth ! hov/ glorious are thy works I 
Look on yon orb, whose ever-open eye 
Sheds at his glance a pure, resplendent light. 
Dispensing good. Nigiit throws her sable veil 
O'er hill and rock, o'er rivulet and ocean : 
Then chaste Diana sheds her silver ray 
O'er all : her throne, the fleecy cloud that floats 
Over the vast expanse of heaven above us ; 
Her bright attendants are the brilliant stars, 
That seem like guardian angels, who attend, 
In virgin purity, to keep from ill 
Our ever-rolling orb : beauty reigns over all, 
And tinges nature with her softest touch. 
If scenery so bright as this be Jiere, 
Oh, how can fancy paint the joys of heaven. 
That pure and holy place, region of bliss ! 
There glides an amber stream, diff'using sweets. 
And every tiny wave, which o'er the sands 
Of purest gold rolls backward, washes up 
Some pearl or diamond, gem of dazzling beautj', 
While ambrosial zephyrs fan the afr. 
See, yonder angel, resting on the cloud, 
His beaming eye upturn'd with holy awe. 
Oh list ! he chaunts his great Creator's praise ; 
His golden harp is never hush'd by wo; 
There music holds her sweet, harmonious reio-n. 
How pure the being who calls forth that lay T 
Such clear, melodious symphony 
Might well awake the dead from their last sleep. 
1833. 



POF.TICAL REMAINS. 143 



TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

Though thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb, 

Like the fiow'ret, which droops in its verdure and bloom ; 

Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 

And thy strains will ne'er waken their echoes again ; 

Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide; 

Still, still, thou art ours and America's pride. 

Sing on, thou pure seraph, with harmony crown'd. 

O'er the broad arch of heaven thy notes shall resound, 

And pour tlie full tide of thy music along, 

While a bright choir of angels re-echoes the song. 

The pure elevation which beam'd from thine eye, 

As it turn'd to its home, in 3'on fair azure sky. 

Told of something- unearthly, — it shone with the light 

Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 

"Round the rose that is wither'd a fragrance remains, 

O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns." 

Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave, 

And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave, 

But thy spirit has mounted to regions on high, 

To the throne of its God, where it never can die. 

1833. 



WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEI^ ELEVEN AND TWELVE 

PROPHECY. 

Fair mortal, I linger to tell thee thy fate. 

Like an angel above thy bright fortunes I wait : 

Thy heart is a mixture of tender and sweet. 

And thy bosom is virtue's own sacred retreat. 

Simplicity soft and affection combine 

To render thee lovely and almost divine. 

Devoid of ambition, rest, dear one, secure, 

For with thoughts so refined, and with feelings so pure, 

What mortal would injure, what care would pursue 

A being protected by heaven like you ? 

Bright beauty thou hast not, but something so fair 

It may serve to protect thee from sorrow and care. 

I pierce the light veil v.'hlch would darken thy fate, 

And angels of happiness round tliee await; 

I see a bright chciub supporting thy head. 

While around thee the smiles of affection are shed ; 

I see thy aged arms around him prest, 

Thy grey locks waving o'er his youthful breast — 

I see thee on his tender bosom lay. 

In silent pleasure breathe thy life away. 

My tale is told — dear one, I linger now 

To kiss with fervent love thy own fair brow. 

1833. 



144 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



ENIGMA. 

On the brow of the monarch in triumph I stand, 
I govern each measure, I rule each command ; 
Without me, his Ivingdom to atoms would full, 
But I share not his crown, and I rule not his hall. 
1 dance in the meadow, and play on the stream, 
And I glimmer obscurely in Luna's pale beam. 

I dwell in thy bosom, I 'm part of thy form, 

But I ride on the tempest, and guide the fierce storm ; 

With the sea-nymph I rest on the moss-cover'd cliff. 

And I weep with the mourner that life is so brief. 

O'er the grave of the mighty in sorrow I bow, 

And I rest in thy mind as thou 'rt watching me now. 

Go look on the pillow of sorrow and care. 

On the brow that is wither'd by darkest despair, 

Stern affliction will meet you, but I am not there. 

In the heart of the rich man, the court of the prince, 

In the mariner's vessel, the warrior's lance. 

In the tumult of war, on the brow of the fair, 

Though millions surround them still I am not there. 

In the home of the noble, the virtuous, the great. 
In thy own lovely bosom, rejoicing I wait. 
I wish I might dwell in that beautiful eye; 
I wish I might float on yon pure azure sky ; 
I would lead you in triumph wherever I stray'd. 
Where the sunbeam had lit, or the pale moon had play'd. 
1834. 



ESSAY ON THE SACRED WRITINGS. 

The Bible! — what is it? — every heart which has read and justly ap- 
preciated that inestimable volume cannot fail to exclaim, "This is the 
work of a God 1" Wlio is there tliat will not admire, (although he read 
with a doubting mind,) its force, dignity, beauty, and simplicity ? Prin- 
ciples so pure, precepts so sublime, and thoughts so refined, who could 
have formed them but one inspired by a God, or God himself? 'Tis 
our guide, our star to lead, the herald to usher us into a glorious eter- 
nity. When the mind is overwhelmed with care, what povi-er can 
soothe like this sacred volume? Its pages beaming with truth and 
mercy, will shed a holy light over the troubled landscape, and impart a 
softer swell to the billows of adversity. It is the lighthouse by whose 
beams we should direct our path over the gloomy waves of life. Then 
why neglect it ? Some may think it derogatory to their earthly dignity 
— " What will the world say ?" Read it, and learn from its sublime 
precepts to stem the tide of worldly opinion. When all else fails you, 
this will remain the supporter of your rights; here is real dignity and 
grandeur, but it is the dignity of the soul, the grandeur of virtue, the 
dignity arising from a close nllianne with the Deity. If He who 



POETICAL REMAINS. 145 

thundered on Mount Sinai, and caused the silver founts to flow fron. 
rocks of adamant, will deign to approacli so near us, is it for us to stand 
aloof, wrapped in the mantle of our own insig-nlficance, and brave the 
tempest of life alone? Oh ! biOW depraved that heart must be, which 
such condescension will fiiil to aftect! and hov/ happy the bosom for 
ever confiding in its God! calm in the midst of afflictions, resigned 
while the torments of grief pour on the soul; which, though borne 
down by sorrow, is fortified by virtue, and looks calmly and steadily 
forward to the calamities which it is certain will terminate in an end- 
less communion with its Maker. 
February 2d, 1834. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 

Oh tremble, ye proud ones ! oh tremble with fear ! 

For Jehovah has come in his wrath ; 
Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow, 

And lightning attends on his path. 
Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye, 
As he treads on the whirlwind, and comes from on high! 

Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin ! 

Before his dread presence in penitence bow ; 
Oh, dash the bright wine- cup in terror away. 

And dare not to gaze on his broad flaming brow, 
For the angel of mercy no longer is there. 
To quiet your conscience, or soothe your despair. 

The spirit of death o'er your city has pass'd. 
His broad flaming weapon is waving on liigh; 

Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind's rude blast, 
'Tis written in fear on yon liglitning-crown'd sky; 

Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance, 

As he Cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance. 

The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne, 
The warrior secure in his strongly-buiit tower, 

For the soft voice of music hear sorrovv's deep moan. 
And shrink 'neath the hand of their God in his power; 

The smile on the cheek is transform'd to a tear. 

But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear. 

Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread. 
For mercy may rest 'neath the frown on his brow. 

Oh, haste ere each fast-failing hope shall have fled, 
Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow. 

The moment of grace and repentance has pass'd , 

Your entreaties for pardon are useless and vain ; 
The sword of destruction is levell'd at last, 
And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again. 
1834. 

12* 



146 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 

Oh thou, who rollest far above, 

Round as my father's shield in war ! 

From whence proceed thy beams, oh sun, 
Which shine for ever and afar? 

All cold and pale, the feeble moon 

Shrinks back, eclipsed beneath thy power; 

The western wave conceals its light 
At morning's bright resplendent hour. 

But thou, unchanging, mov'st alone ! 

Oh v;ho may thy companion be? 
The rugged rocks, the mountain's fall, 

But who may stand in might like thee ? 

The ocean shrinks and grows again, 
All earthly things will fade away, 

But thou for ever art the same, 
Rejoicing in thy brilliant ray ; 

Rolling and rolling on thy way. 

Enlightening worlds from day to day. 

When o'er yon vault the thunders peal, 
And lightning in its pathway flies ; 

When tempests darken o'er the world. 
And cloud the once resplendent skies, 

Thou rear'st on high thy noble form. 

And laughest at the raging storm. 

But now thou look'st to me in vain, 
For I behold thy beams no more ; 

I languish here in darkness novr. 
On Erin's green and fertile shore. 

I know not if thy yellow hair 
Is floating on the western clouds, 

Or if the fleecy veil of morn 

Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds ; 

But thou, great sun, perhaps, like me. 
Shall days of rest and silence see. 

Amid the clouds thy form may sleep. 
Regardless of the morning's voice ; 

Exult then, mighty orb of day, 

And in thy vigorous youth rejoice. 
1834. 

TO MY DEAR MAMMA. 

ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NSW YORK. 

Though my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long 
That its chords are now broken, and loose, and unstrung, 

If 't will call but one smile of delight to tliy cheek, 
I will waken the notes which so long were unsung. 



POETICAL REMAINS. l'^? 

My lyre has been thrown all neglected aside, 
And otiier enjoyments 1' ve souglit for a while ; 

But though lured"by liieir brilliance, still none can compare 
With my dear little harp and my mother's sweet smile. 

With joy I return to my books and my pen, 

To my snug little home and its inmates so dear, 
For while scrrbbling each thought of my half-crazy brain 

I can chase every sorrow and lull every fear. 
Oh excuse my poor harp, if the lines do not rhyme, 

'T is so long since it warbled aught breathing of sense, 
That the chords, though I' m striving to tunc them aright. 

Still warble of folly and pleasure intense. 
1834. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F. H. WEBB. 

In vain I strike my youthful lyre, 

Some gayer music to impart, 
And dissipate the gloom which hangs 

Too sadly round my mourning heart. 

Oh, I would wish its low deep tones. 

Some gentler, sprightlier strains to borrow ; 

But still they only can respond 

The plaintive voice of heartfelt sorrow- 

For she, the young, the bright, the gay, 

Has left us here to weep, 
While cover'd with her parent clay, 

And wrapt in death's long sleep. 

But memory still can paint the scenes 

Of past, but ne'er forgotten joy, 
When we have sported v/ild and free, 

No sorrow pleasure's tide to cloy. 

Thy form, as it was wont to be, 

Still mingles with each thought of home; 

My earliest sports were join'd by thee. 

When graced by beauty's brightest bloom. 

Again I view that hazel eye, 

With life and pleasure beaming ; 
Again I view that fair, white brov/, 

Those dark locks o'er it streaming. 

Again I view thy blushing cheek, 

The glow of love and pride. 
When, 'mid tlie throng of smiling friends, 

A blooming, happy bride. 

But more than these, the angel mind 

Should all our thoughts engage ; 
Oh, 't was unsullied and refined 

As is this spotless page. 



148 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

How changed the scene ! the star of hope 
Has set in clouds of darkest night, 

And she, the lovely and the gay, 

Is laid in the grave with her beauty and li^rlit. 

Oh, where shall the mother, all mourning and sad, 
Oh, where shall she look for the child she adored ! 

And where shall the husband, half frantic with grief, 
Find the wife in whose bosom his sorrows he pour'd ! 

How lonely and silent each well-beloved scene. 

Each garden, each grove, which she loved to frequent; 

The sweet flowers she nurtured so fondly and long. 
In sorrow their heads to the damp ground have bent. 

But a fiow'ret more lovely, more tender and pure. 
Is languidly drooping, no mother to guide ; 

The fond kiss of a mother it never can feel. 

And to her the Vv'arm prayer of a mother's denied. 

But the spirit we mourn has ascended on high. 
And there it vCill watch o'er its httle one's fate; 

In whispers her voice will be heard from the sky. 
With a mother's affection which ne'er can abate. 
1834. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

Though yon broad vault of heavenly blue 
Is spangled o'er with gems of light ; 

Though veil'd beneath its azure hue 
Is glittering many a star so bright ; 

Though thousands wait around the throne 
Of yon cold monarch, proudly fair; 

Though all unite their dazzling powers 
To vie with Luna's brilliance there; 

Each star which decks her cloud-veil'd brow 

Or glitters in her snowy car. 
Would shrink beneath thy dazzling ra}-. 

Sweet little sparkling evening star ! 

No twinkling groups around thee throng, 
Thy path majestic, lonely, bright ! 

A radiant softness shades thy form, 
First wanderer in the train of night ! 

While gazing on thy glorious path. 

It seems as though some seraph's eye 
Look'd with angelic sweetness down, 

And watch'd mc from the glorious sky. 
As the dim twilight steals around, 

And thou art trembling far above, 
I think of those no longer here. 

Dear ohiects of mv earliest love. 



POETICAL REMAINS. lAU 

And the soft ray which beams from thee, 

A soothing calmness doth impart; 
And from each poignant sorrow free, 

A sweet composure fills my heart. 

Oh ! then shine on thus pure and bright, 

Pour on each mourning soul thy balm ' 
Soothe the sad bosom's rankling grief, 

And fill it with thy heavenly calm ! 

Till meek, submissive, and resign'd. 

It seeks above a purer joy ; 
And stays the fickle, wayward mind 
On pleasures which can never cloy. 
1834. 



TO MY FATHER. 

Oh, how I love n)y father's eye, 

So tender and so kind ! 
Oh, liow I love its azure dye, 

The index of his mind ! 

Oh, how I love the silver hair 
Which floats around his brow ! 

I love to press my father's form, 
And feel his cheek's warm glow. 

Oil what is like a parent's love? 

What heart like his will feel, 
When sorrow's waves are raging round, 

And cares the thoughts congeal ? 

Would he not die Ins child to save? 

Would not his blood be shed 
That yet one darling might remain 

To soothe his dying bed ? 

Oh, what is like a parent's care 
To guard tlie youthful mind ? 

Oh, what is like a parent's prayer. 
Unbounded grace to find ? 

Ah, yes ! my father is a friend 

I ever must revere, 
And, if I could but cease to love. 

His virtues I v/ould fear. 
1834. 



ON NATURE. 

" How beautiful is Nature !" Every soul, 
Beating with warm and gentle feeling, 
Must repeat with me these heartfelt words, 
" How beautiful is Nature I" In the dark 



150 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Awful waving of tlie sky-crown'd forest, 

Her gentle whisper, like an angel's voice, 

Still breaks upon the stillness ; — in the stream 

Which ripples past, is heard her low, sweet inurniar ; 

While on the varied sky, the frowning mount. 

Her chainless hand majestical is laid ! 

What voice so sweet as hers ' what touch so soft, 

So delicate ? what pencilling so divine ? 

Oh, can the warmest fancy ever picture 

To the rapt soul, a scene more beautiful I 

Say, can imagination, light as air. 

Capricious as each varying wind which blows, 

Create a model of more perfect loveliness, 

More grace and symmetry ? Can thought present 

A tint more light, and yet more gorgeous, 

Hues more sweetly mingled, one dim shadow, 

Blending in grace more lovely with another ? 

Ah no ! but 'tis the sin which dwells within 

That casts a dark'nmg shade o'er Nature's face — 

Nought can there be more beauteous and divine; 

But to the eye of discojjtent and wo, 

Her gentle graces seem to mix with sorrow • 

And to the cliilling glance of stern despair, 

Her sweetest smile is but a threatening cloud ; 

Just as the mind is turn'd she smiles or frov^'ns, 

And to each eye a different view appears. 

The cheerful, happy heart, devoid of guilt, 

Like a white tablet, opens to receive 

Each passing hue, and as the colours flit 

Over its surface, it becomes more tranquil, 

And lit to take once more the forms of joy, 

Which ever, as they glide so swce-tly by. 

Tinge the fond soul with happiness serene. 

If dark, degrading sin had never cast 

Its shade of gloom o'er Nature's lovely brow, 

This world had been an earthly paradise. 

An all-presiding God has deck'd'our globe 

With grace, and life, and light; each object glows 

With heavenly tints, and every form 

Contains some hidden beauty, which, to minds 

Unburden'd with a consciousness of guilt. 

Proclaims the power of Him who rules o'er all. 

The falling snow-flake, or the humming bee. 

Small though they seem, may still contain a world 

Of knowledge and of skill, which human wisdom, 

Mix'd with human guilt, can never fathom. 

The smallest item in this wondrous plan, 

Replete with grace, and harmony, and light,^ 

Would form employment for a fleeting life ? 

Oh, 't were a home for angels ! and a home 

No angel might despise, if human guilt 

Had never stain'd it with its crimson glow. 

Our earth was once an Eden, and if sin 



POETICAL REMAINS. 3 51 

Had never tinged with blood its rippling streams, 
And ne'er protuned its broad luxuriant fields 
With scenes of wickedness and thoughts of woe, 
Had thus remain'd ; each heart o'erHowing 
With delight and love ; each bosom fiU'd 
With heavenly py. How awful is the change ! 
And how tremendous tlie effect of sin 
On nature and on man ! The wayward soul, 
Once open'd to degrading guilt, is deaden'd 
To her beauty; and all the glowing charms 
Which waken'd it to love and happiness, 
Ere thus ensnared, are pass'd unnoticed now I 
Oh, could we purify our souls from sin, 
Would we desire a brighter heaven than this ? 
More glorious, more sublime, more varied, 
Or more beauteous? The softly rippling stream, 
The rising mountain, and the leafy wood, 
Combine their charms to grace the splendid scene! 
The liglit-crown'd firmament, the tinted sky. 
And all the sweetly varying graces 
Which bedeck the queenlike broiv of nature, 
Serve but to show the power of nature's God, 
The mighty Lord of tliis immense creation I 
The heavenlv Maker of our lovelv world. 
l£34. 

TO THE INFIDEL. 

Behold, thou daring sinner ! canst thou say, 

As rolls tlie sun along its trackless course, 
A God has never form'd that orb of day. 

Of life, and light, and happiness the source? 

Who made yon dark blue ocean ? Who 

The roaring billow and the curling wave. 
Dashing and foaming o'er its coral bed, 

Of many a hardy mariner the grave? 

Who made yon dazzling firmament of blue. 

So calm, so beautiful, so brightly clear, 
Deck'd with its stars and clouds of fleecy Vv'hite, 

Like the bright entrance to anotlier sphere ? 

Who made the drooping flow'ret ? Who 

The snowy lily and the blushing rose — 
Emblem of love, which sheds its fragrance round, 

As with the tints of heaven it brightly glows ? 

Who raised the frowning rock ? Who made 
The moss and turf around its base to grow? 

Who made the lofly mountains, and the streams 
Which at their feet in rippling currents flow ? 

Say, was it not a God ? and does not all 

Bear the strong " impress of his mighty hand V 

Oh yes — his stamp is fix'd on ail around — 
All sprang to being at our Lord's command. 



62 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Ob, ask the mind I — oh, ask the immortal mind, 
^ And this will be stern reason's firm reply — 
'T will echo over ocean's swelling tide : 
The hand that form'd us was a Deity I 



1834. 



ON THE MIND. 

Uo\v great, how wonderful the human mind, 

Which, in each secret fold, conceals some dread. 

Mysterious truth ; which spurns the fetters 

Binding it to earth, yet draws them closer 

Round it; which, yearning for a world more pure. 

And more congenial with its heavenly thoughts, 

Confines its soaring spirit to the region 

Of death and sin ! But oh, how glorious 

The sublime idea, that though tins frame, 

Corrupt and mortal, mingle with the dust, 

There is a spark witliin, which, while on earth, 

Gives to the clay its energy and life. 

And when that "clay returnetli to the dust 

From whence it came, may rise triumphant 

From the senseless clod, and soaring, mount on high. 

To dwell with beings holy and divine ; 

And there, with its ever-growing ken. 

Clasp the great universe ; with angels there 

To expand those heaven-born powers, whicli here 

Were fetter'd with the earthly chains that bind 

Misguided man — pride, sorrow, discontent, 

And cold ambition, foolish and perverted — 

But destined there to burn in all its light, 

And urge the enfranchised on to seek 

Glories still undiscover'd, wonders 

As yet unknown. And can it be ? Does this 

Weak, trembling frame conceiil within itself 

A soul ethereal and immortal ? 

A glorious spark, sublime and boundles?, 

"Struck from the burning essence of its God," 

The great I AM, the dread Eternal ? 

Oh, how tremendous is the awful thougiit I 

The soul shrinks back alarm'd, too weak to gaze 

On its own greatness, or rather on tlie greatness 

Of that God who made it I Yes ! 'tis his work ! 

The moulding of his mighty hand ! How dread, 

How peerless, how incomparably great 

The Governor and Former of this vast machine ! 

Who watclies from on high its slightest thought. 

And omnipresent and unbounded, swaj-s 

Each feeling and each impulse ! and whose touch, 

However slight, may turn its passions from 

Their common channel, and whose breath can tunc 

Aright those delicate and hidden fibres. 

Which, rudely touch'd, would yield their finest chords, 

And thus destroy the harmony of all, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 15? 

Leaving a blank and darken'd chaos 
Where once was harmony and joy ! 
Oh ye that seek to guide perverse mankind, 
Tamper not lightly with the human mind ; 
But when an erring friend from virtue strays, 
Gently reprove, and do not seek to guide 
Those hidden springs which God alone can fathom. 
Oh 'tis a fearful thing to see the mind, 
Derived from sucli a pure and holy source. 
Debased by sin, by darl:, oifensive crime, 
And render'd equal vvitii tlvj beasts tliat roam ? 
To see the wreck of all that once was good, 
The shrinking remnant ofa noble sou!. 
Like the proud ship, v.iiich for a while may stem 
The roaring ocean, but o'ercome by storms, 
With half its voyage done, is torn apart — 
The sails, the stately masts, and, last of all, 
The guiding helm — until the shattcr'd hulk 
Lies undefended from the sweeping blasts, 
Threaten'd by frowning rocks ; — bt!t as some 
Friendly {)and may snatch from death's embrace 
The shuddering crew, so may a Saviour's love 
Redeem from endless wo the trembling sinner. 
And lead his shrinking spirit up to heaven I 
I'he mighty God who saw him err, can change, 
Within the twinkling of an eye, his wayward heart, 
And give to liis apostate soul tiiose pure 
And blessed dreams of heaven, 
Those hopes of immortality, which soothe 
The dying Christian ; and when his spirit 
Ascends to dwell vv'ith Him it once despised, 
Through the bright merits of our heavenly Lord, 
It there may join in love and hope with all 
The angel band, in singing praises 
To their glorious King, tiie great Jehovah ! 
Oh that we too might cherish every virtue, 
Prepare our minds for immortality, 
Where undisturb'd they may expand, 
And reach perfection in a future world. 
1834. 



ON THE HOPE OF MY BROTHER'S RETURN 

Why rejoices my heart at the passage of time. 

As it sweeps on the wind o'er the fast-rolling year. 

And bounds as the sun to his broad couch declines. 
His bed in the ocean, majestic and clear? 

I pause not to question if wise it may be. 
But faster I'll hurry old Time on his way; 

And while hours unnumber'd shall rapidly flee, 
I'll laugh as they fade from the fast-closing day 
13 



15* MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

When the icy-cold spell of stern v.'inter shall break, 

And the snow shall dissolve like the dewdrops of morn; 

When spring from his death-like embraces shall wake, 
And verdure and brilliance her brow shall adorn ; 

To my fancy the woodlands more sweetly will smile, 
The streamlets unshackled more tranquilly glide ; 

More softly shall nature each sorrow beguile, 

And disperse every thought which with grief may be dyed. 

I will watch the bright flowers with their delicate bloom, 
Aroused, as by magic, from winter's cold tomb, 
For my Iieart will be gladdcn'd as near and more near 
The period approaches when he will be here. 
Oh June ! how resplendent tliy flowers shall appear, 
The loveliest, tlie sweetest which bloom in the year ! 
For with me a fond brother your grace shall admire. 
And each word from his lips shall new rapture inspire. 
But these dreams, though enchanting, may prove to be vain, 
He never may visit tlie loved scene again ; 
On his home the drend weight of affliction may rest, 
And the cold hand of sorrow may chill the warm breast ; 
Or death from its bosom some dear one may sever 
And stop the warm current of life-blood for ever. * 
But love will illumine the future with light. 
And tinge every cloud with a colour as bright 
As hope in her own sanguine bosom has planted, 
Or fancy with all her illusions has granted. 
1834. 

TO MY MOTHER. 

The spring of life is opening 

Upon my youthful mind, 
And every day the more I see, 

The more there is to find. 

The path of life is beautiful 

When sprinkled o'er with flowers. 

And I ne'er felt affliction's touch, 
Or watch'd the weary hours. 

To guard my youthful couch from wo, 

An angel hovers near. 
Watches my bosom's every throe, 

And wipes each childish tear. 

It is my mother — and with her 

Through life I 'd sweetly glide. 
And when my pilgrimage is o'er 

I 'd moulder at her side. 

* To her I dedicate my lay, 

'T is she inspires my song ; 
Oh that it might those charms possess. 

Which to the muse belong, 
1831. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 155 



BOABDIL EL CHICO'S FAREWELL TO GRANADA. 

The youthful lyre would shrink from tales of woe, 

Would tune with hope and love each quivering string; 
But when truth bids tiie sorrowing numbers flow, 

Its mournful chords responsive notes must ring. 
'Tis svv'ect to tell of laughing mirth and glee ; 

Its chords would vibrate but to purest joy ; 
And when deep anguish pours unmix'd and free, 

Would haste with hope the sinking heart to buoy. 

But faithfal history still the page unfolds 

Of war and blood ; of carnage fierce and dark ; 
Of savage bosoms, cast in giant mould, 

And hearts unvvarm'd by pity's gentle spark. 
Then cast your garb of merry music by, 

Assum.e the mantle of unbrighten'd woe; — ■• 

A cloud is gathering o'er the peaceful sky, 

And the warm sunbeams hide their golden glow. 

Robed in a mantle of unrivali'd light, 

The glorious sun was sinking o'er the plain, 
And tinging, with a glov^ of radiance bright. 

The towering domes and palaces of Spain. 
Between the Jolty mounts which rise around, 

And form the deep ravine or shady dell, 
Granada's towers in mighty grandeur stood. 

And on the plain their darkening shadows li;ll. 

The beams were gikiing all her lofty towers, 

As qn Nevada's side Alhambra stood, 
And o'er her spacious halls, her laurel bowers, 

Her marble courts, tliey pour'd a dazzling flood. 
Her gothic arches ghtter'd in tlie ray, 

While many a gushing fountain cool'd the air, 
And o'er the blushing flowers diffused their spray, 

Which bloom perennial in a world of care. 

The golden lute upon the grape-vine hung. 
O'er sparkling waves the fragrant orange rose. 

And o'er the gilded roofs the sunbeams flung 
A dazzling light, as when the diamond glows. 

And can it be I — cau scer:.8s so fair as this 

Know aught but joy unclouded, purest bliss ? 

Will heaven's bright orb its dazzling brilliance shed, 

As if in mockery, upon sorrow's head '^ 

Will skies of azure pour tlieir softest light 

On hearts which grief has sear'd, and woe doth blight? 

Will earth rejoice, while earthly iiearts are riven,— 

While man, oppreys'd, to dark despair is driven ? 

Retire, oh sun ! reserve thy cheering rays 

For calmer hours, fa" brighter, happier days ! 



156 IVil^S MARGARET DAVlDSOiN. 

Go shine on England's spires, or India's bowers, 
But gaze not on Alhambra's humbled towers ! 

Cease, cease lliy soft meanderings, sparkling river! 
Wind sadly silent, gentle Guadalquivir ! 
No more tliy waves through Moorish woodlands glance, 
No more reliect tlie Moorish warrior's lance, 
Nor view the tournament and sprig^itly dance. 
Cease, for thy foam is red with Moslem blood ! 
Cease, for thy lords lie cold beneath thy flood ! 
Captive Boabdil leaves his rightful throne. 
To others yields a kingdom once his'ov/n. 

Behold yon gate I^ the ancient sages say 

No stone shall loosen, till that awful day, 

When yonder guardian liand, now firmly clasp'd, 

The mystic key beneath its arch has grasp'd ; 

At that dread liour each crumbling stone shall fall, 

And in one common ruin buryall ; 

But not till then, tliough first Alhambra lie 

A shapeless ruin, 'neath a frowning sky. 

Why should she last? the monument of shame. 
Her legends disbelieved, degraded every name ! 

Her noblest chiefs reduced to toil, 

Her maidens left, the conqueror's spoil! 
Murder'd her children, scorn'd each lovely dame. 

Oh, that the mystic hand had power 
To veil Granada's shame ; 

That in one dark and awful hour, 
Might perish each dishonour'd name. 

Lo ! on yon mount appears a mournful train ! 
Behold the newly-conquer'd slave of Spain ! 
El Chico, humbled, winds his sorrowing way, 
For, with his home, he leaves the light of day. 
Ill-fated prince ! thine errors still I mourn ; 

A father's hatred caused each bursting sigh ; 
Thy youthful days were lonely and forlorn, 

Condemn'd a father's cruelty to fly. 

Thy heart was never form'd for kingly state ; 

It teem'd with softest feeling, gentlest thought I 
Devoid of strength to battle with thy fate. 

For peace in vain thy troubled bosom sought ! 

Though the brave may not tremble when war shall surround them 
Or shrink when tlie mantle of death shall have bound them, 
Yet the eye whicli can gaze unconoern'd on the tomb, 
Which can look without shrinking on death in its gloom, 
Will dissolve like the dew, or some wizard's dark spell, 
When it bids the svv'eet home of its childhood farewell. 

The exiled monarch slowly turn'd away; 

He could not bear to view tiiose towers again, 
Which proudly glitter'd in the sun's last ray. 

As if to mock their wretched master's pain. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 157 

His weeping- bride press'd trembling' near his form, 

While sobs convulsive heaved her snowy breast; 
But proud Ayxa bade their sorrows cease, 

With scornful glances which siic scarce represt. 
"Chide me not, mother," cried tiie mournino' son, 

" Nor charg-c me with unmanly weakness now; 
I grieve that Spain the royal prize lias won, 

That proud Granada to her kings siiould bow." 
He paused, and turn'd aside his glowing cheek ; 

His wandering eyes Alhambra's palace met: 
Those splendid domes, those towers for ever lost, 

Lost, when the sun of Moorish glory set. 

" Yes ! yonder towering spires are seized by Spain, 

Their king an exile from his native land ; 
Shall I ne'er view thy princely courts again. 

But yield resistless to the victor's brand ? 
Yes, thou art gone ! thine ancient splendours fled ! 

O'er thy gay towers the shroud of slavery thrown ; 
Thy proudest chiefs, thy noblest warriors dead. 

And all thy pride and all thy glory gone. 

"Farewell to Alhambra, dear home of my childhood! 

Farewell to the land I so proudly have cherish'd ; 
Farewell to the streamlet, the glen, and the wild-wood, 

The throne of my fathers whose glory has perish'd ! 
'Neath the crest of Nevada the bright sun is setting. 

And tinging with gold yonder beautiful river, 
And his rays seem to linger, as if half-regretting 

They must leave the clear waves where so sweetly they quiver. 

" Farewell, tliou bright valley ! I leave thee with sorrow ; 
Thou wilt smile as serene 'neath the sun of the morrow ; 
But thine ill-fated monarch shall view thee no more, 
He ne'er shall revisit thy beautiful shore." 
He paused ; and tiie accents of heart-rending grief 
Were borne by the wind past each murmuring leaf. 

Cease, cease these vain wailings 1" Ayxa replied, 
"Nor languish and weep like thy timid young bride ; 

Why mourn like a maid, who in sorrow will bend," 

For what as a man thou couldst never defend ! 

Then cease these vain wailings, which womanlike pour. 

Or Ayxa la Korra will own thee no more ; 

Granada has flillcn, her glory has fled. 

Her warriors and chieftains now sleep with the dead , 

But who has surrender'd her walls to our foe. 

And branded her honour with shame's crimson glow ?" 

The tear to his eyelid unconsciously sprung. 
But back the intruder he eagerly flung. 
And cried, in a tone which with frenzy might blend, 
" Defamed by my country, and scorn'd by my friend '.** 
They slowly ascended a rock towering high, 
Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sio-h f 
18* 



158 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

No prospect of beauty his mourning heart cheers, 
And he murmurs farewell on the dark hill of tears. 



Thafcigh grief and remorse with terrors oppress'd him ; 
Though peace and affection ne'er tranquilly blest hirn ; 
Though liis kingdom was captured, his warriors were dyingf, 
Himself from the fury of Ferdinand flying ; 
Through the tumult of foehng his pride liad sustain'd him, 
Had his griefs but a mother's fond sympathy gain'd iiim; 
But the pride of a princess affection o'ercame 
And with basest dishonour she branded his name. 

Reproachful invectives unthinking she shower'd, 

" fiis country was fallen, its monarch a coward ?" 

The proud Ayxa loved her yielding son, 

And would have died had death his glory won ; 

But she had hoped his rising fame to see. 

Had long'd to view his vanquish'd focmen flee. 

This cherish'd object of each glowing tliought 

Stern disappointment now had torn away. 
And left a gaping wound, with frenzy fraught; 

For hope and fancy pour'd no cheering ray. 
The mother was forgot in stately pride. 

While bitter anguish drew the trembling tear; 
He claim'd her pity — she could only chide, 

And laugh to scorn his cowardice and fear. 

But the fair Zorahayda his beautiful bride, 
To soothe his afiiiction, rcm.ain'd at his side ; 
Each thought found an answering chord in her bosom, 
Whicli glow'd with affection's first bciuitiful blos?om : 
' Twas warm as the sunbeam, and bright as its glance; 
' Twas clear as the ripples winch fairy-like dance ; 
Each thought and each feeling which dwelt in her soul 
Her eye and her countenance told him the whole. 

Yes, she, the young, the beautiful, the gay. 
To sorrow's dread abode love call'd away ! 
From her dark eye she wiped the starting tear, 
And by his side repress'd each rising fear; 
Though dark despair should dim each future day. 
And even hope refuse her cheering ra}'-. 
Her fairy form would bless his wandering eyes 
Like some pure spirit from the glowing skies. 

Reposing 'mid Alhambra's shady bowers, 
She cheer'd his lonely and his weary hours; 
But when, alas ! his brow no longer wore 
The crown, Vv-hich proudly grac'd his front before, 
When fickle Moors forsook l)is tottering throne. 
When, glory, power, and kingly state were gone, 
And threatening clouds were seen around to lower, 
Tlien, then lie lelt the more her witching power. 

Vanquish'd at last upon the battle field. 
And forced Grnnada's lofty towers to yirld, 



POETIC A]. RErvIATNS. 159 

Stil! the fair bud of promise brightly glow'd, 

From her heart's depths the warm aftections flow'c! ; 

She sweetly soothed his cares, she blest his name, 

And sorrow fann'd to light tiie kindling flame 9 

Which burn'd within that lender, faithful mind, 

To all his faults, and all his errors blind. 

How sweet the communion of kindred minds, 

When sorrow each hope hath blighted ; 
When the heart which is bursting with agony finds 

One face with pure sympatiiy lighted. 
And must he from the iciir Zorahayda be banish'd, 

Must the charm of existence for ever be broken? 
Has every fond dream of prosperity vanish'd, 

Must he sigh over love's wither'd token ? 
In the tower of Gomares he gatlier'd a fev^-, 

And his warriors, still lidthful, ho rallied, 
The broad Moorish banner far over them flew, 

And forth to the battle he sallied. 
He return'd — and his eye was cast down in despair, 

The glow on his cheek was still deeper ; 
" Farewell to Granada 1 our foemen are there I*" 

Loudly echoes the voice of the weeper. 
*' Come, wife of my bosom ! together we 'II wander, 

Tlie storm of affliction together we '11 brave ; 
And perchance in some distant and desolate region, 

We may find a lone shelter, a home, and a grave, 
I would not my spirit should quit its sad mansion 

'Mid the taunts and revilings of conquering Spain, 
Where the foot of the victor would tread o'er my ashes. 

And reproach and dishonour would tarnish mj' name. 
" Ob, gaze on yon parapets towering on high, 

Those pillars of pride were but yesterday mine ; 
But to-day we are doom'd from their splendours to fly — 

Weep not for my sorrows, I mourn but for thine ; 
Those halls shall re-echo the lond voice of grief, 

Those fountains in murmurs respond to our sorrow. 
But ne'er can they waken the bright smile again. 

Which woe from gay pleasure a moment would borrow 
"Around those gay mansions and beautiful bowers 

The foot of the stranger contemptuous shall press; 
Unmark'd the bright fountains, uncultured the flowers. 

No fair hand to cherish, no soft voice to bless, 
Ill-fated Boabdil! thy name shall be hated ! 

The babe shall repeat it with moaning and tears. 
And the eye wliich was sparkling, with pleasure elated, 

Indignant shall glance on thy cowardly fears. ' 
He paused, and led away his mourning bride, 
In grief his solace, and in joy his pride. 
But v^-hither do his weary footsteps bend ?^ 
What clime his broken heart one joy can lend ? 
Where can he now from shame despairing fly, — 
,r<'ne:ith what golden sun, what beaming sky? 



100 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

On Afric's arid plains and yellow sands, 
Leagued with the Moslem's wild and ruthless bands, 
With desperate force he grasp'd tlie f;ital lance, 
And shrank not at the scimitar's broad glance; 
Fighting for strangers' rights he bravely fell, 
While his own land was sunk in slavery's spell; 
Far from affection's soft and soothing hand, 
Interr'd by strangers in a foreign land. 

How stransre the structure of the human heart, 
Which springs anew 'neath sorrow's quivering dart ; 
Bursting from wild despair, from sullen gloom, 
And fired by frenzy, hastening to the toml). 
Reckless of danger, — rushing to the strife, — 
For strangers bleeding, — yielding even life, — 
Thus did Boabdil sink on Afric's plain, 
His name dishonour'd in his own bright Spain ! 



NOTES TO BOABDIL EL. CKICO. 

NOTE I. 
•' Behold yon gate ! the ancient sages say." 
On the keystone of the arch is eiignven a gigantic hand; within the vestibule on the 
keystone of the portal is enaraven in like nv-mner a gi^'nntic key. 1 hose who pretend to 
some knowledge of Mahometan symbols affirm, that \hv hand is an emh em ot doctrine, 
and the key of faith. The latter, they add, was emblazoned on the standard of the Mos- 
lems when they subdued Andalusia, in oppo.-<ition to the ("hristian emblem of the cross. 
According to Mateo, it is a tradition handed down from the oldest inhabitants, that the 
hand and key were masirHi devices, upon which the faie ot the Aihambra deperided.— 
The Moorish king who built it was a great masician, and, as some believe, had sold him- 
self to the devil, and had lain the whole fortress undc-r a magical spell. 1 his spell, the 
tradition went on to say, would last tiii the hand on the outer arch should reach down and 
grasp the key. wheri the wh<de pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried 
beneath it by the Moors would be revealed.— /rt)??!^-. 

NOTE II. 

" Why mourn as a maid, who in sorrow will bend." 

It was here too, his affliction was embittered by the reproaches of his mother Ayxa who 

had often assisted him in times of peril, and had vainly sought to instil mto him a portion 

of her own resolute spirit—" Why mourn as a woman, for that which as a man you could 

not defend 1" — Irving. 



" Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh." 
Beyond the embowered regions of the Vega, you behold a lino of and. bills. It was 
from the summit of one of these that the unfortunate Uoabdil cast back his last lo<;'k on 
Granada, and gave vent to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and his- 
tory as " The Last Sigh of the ^loox.'"— Irving. 

KOTE IV. 

" And he murmur'd farewell on the dark hill of tears." 

Another name given to the hill on the summit of which he bade farewell to Granada. 

NOTE V. 
" But whither do his weary footsteps bend ?" 
AHer leaving the Alpnxarra mountains he proceeded to Africa, and died in ejefenee of 
the territories of Muley Aben, King of IVz. On Laving Miain. .n band of (aiih iil follow- 
ers and the members of his huusc.h.dd col!.'.r!e.! on the boa.li. to bid l.im farewell As the 
vesse in whi.h he had embarke.1 was s'ovvly flnatiiig onwaid. they shouted, "Farewell, 
Boabdil! Alhih preserve thee. El Zogoybi \'\ (or thr unlucLv) I he name thus given hnn 
Bank s.. (let-ply into \n.~ heart, that he burst into a flood ot tears, and was unable to speak 
from cinoiimi. 
IS:J4, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 16. 



THE SHUNAMITE. 

The sun had g"ently shed his twilight beams 

O'er Shunam's graceful waving harvest fields, 

And with his golden rays each object tinged, - 

Imparting to all nature hues of joy: 

The western sky had caught his parting ray, 

And with reflected glory shone above, 

In all the lovely varied hues vvliich deck 

A summer sky ; masses of floating cloud 

Hung gorgeous in the clear, blue firmament, 

Brilliant as are the fairest rainbow's hues; 

AVhiic round them spread the light and silver haze, 

Bej'ond whose fold the eye could just discern 

The pure transparence of the azure heaven. 

The scene was beautiful ! A tranquil sleep 

Seem'd on the brov/ of nature lightly resting ! 

It was an hour wlicn the pure soul might rise 

And dwell in sweet communion with its God, 

And contemplation and unmingled love 

Find for a while repose and silence there. 

But where is she, the gentle, lovely mother, 

Whose soul deliglited in an hour like this? 

Oh, why does not her footstep softly shake 

From the moist grass the drops of pearly dew ? 

Say, have the glittering charms of wealth and pride 

Allured her from the sweetest charms of nature? 

Have the gay baubles siie was wont to scorn 

Enticed her from this lovely scene away ? 

It cannot be ; perchance amid the sick 

Or suffering poor, her pitying spirit 

Finds sweet employment, while her liberal hand 

Offers relief to the sad prisoners 

Who on her bounty live. No ! while her heart 

Was free from care and racking anguish. 

She could soothe another's grief; but now — 

Alas ! how alter'd now — her darling child. 

The laughing, sprightly boy, v/ho at her side 

Was wont in childish frolic to remain — 

Where is he now ? The tones of his soil voice 

Would soothe a mourner's heart, however sad, 

Much more the mother's, who so dearly loved him— 

Ay, loved him 1 for she now hath nought to love 

Save the cold renmant of what once was life ! 

Yes '. in the splendid mansion which but seems 

To mock her heartfelt agony, she weeps, 

And weeping, watches o'er the lifeless corpse 

Of her adored, her beautiful, her boy. 

Perhaps just heaven removed this cherish'd flower, 

That her own heart, bereft of earthly joy. 

Might cling more closely to her God and Maker. 

I know not — but the blow was keenly felt. 

And deeoly, truly mourn't' 



16*2 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The spacious room 
With rich ernbroidcr'd tapestry was hung-. 
And, mingled with the massy, crimson folds, 
Shone many a gem of burning lustre. 
The floor was paved with polish'd marble, 
And tiie lifeless form whicii lay before her 
Was array'd in costly garments ; but she, 
Vainly communing there with icy death, 
If at her feet lay all the wealth of nations, 
One speaking glance of life from those sweet eyes 
Now closed lor ever, had been worth it all. 
The boy lay gently cradled on the knee 
Of the fond mother, and her crimson robe 
Around his form was wrapt; while on one arm 
His fair young head was pillow'd, and her brow, 
Her aching brow, reclined upon the other. 
The auburn curls around his temples clung. 
Clustering in beauty there, and tlie blue veins, 
So clearly seen 'neath the transparent skin, 
Seem'd flowing still with life-blood ; the long lash 
Of his blue, half-closed eye appcar'd to tremble 
On his fair cheek, wliile the fast-rolling tears 
Which from his mother's darker orbits fell, 
Droop'd from his snowy brow, as they had rested 
Upon a marble statue. 

Her grief 
Burst forth awliile in sobs and bitter groans ; 
But when the view of death had for a time 
Met her dull vision, and the sight of sorrow 
Grew more familiar, then her full heart 
Burst forth in words, simple but plaintive. 
Sweetly pathetic were the gentle tones 
Of her melodious voice ; no ear 
Could listen but to pity, and no eye 
That saw her but must gaze and weep. 

LAMENT. 

And art thou gone, my beautiful, my boy, 
Thy sorrowing father's pride, thy mother's joy ! 
I had not thought, my child, to view thee so, 
In death's cold clasp laid motionless and low ! 
I had not thouglit to close thy beaming eyes, 
To hear thy dying groans, thy feeble cries. 
Alas ! that thus for thee my tears should flow ! 
I thought not that this form, so fair and bright. 
Death with his chilling arrows e'er could blight: 
And oh, my child, my child, it cannot be 
That his cold hand hath rested upon thee I 
That this fair form, so active but to-day, 
Is now a senseless, lifeless mass of clay — 
Dust of the earth, fit sabject for decay ! 

How white thy brow! how beautiful thy skin I 
The spirit nmst be resting still witliin I 



POETICAL REMAINS. 163 

Tlie pure, warm blood thy lip is tinging still, — 

The purple current seems each vein to fill ! 

Oh no, it cannot be ! My boy, awake ! 

Rouse from this slumber, for thy mother's sake ! 

Rouse, ere that mother's mourning heart shall break • 

It is not so ! my boy is gone for ever, 

And I shall view his face again, oh never I 

Ah, my sweet boy, I've watch'd thine infant years 

With joy and grief, alternate hopes and fears. 
For many a night 1' ve borne thee on my knee, 
Full many an hour of care I've spent for thee ; 

Thy joy would glad me, and thy grief bring tears. 

Fond fancy pictured thee a noble man, 

Tiio fairest work in nature's wondrous plan ; 

The foremost leader in each patriot band. 

Redeeming Syria from her foeman's hand ; 

Fearless in battle, swiftest in the race. 

Replete with courage, virtue, strength, and grace; 

I saw thee generous, noble, active, mild, 

And blest the hero as my darling child ! 

But oh, my God ! these hopes were crush'd by thee , 

How shall I murmur at thy dread decree ! 

Hush, rebel spirit! whispering conscience tells 

I should not vent each troubled thought which swells 

In my torn lieart — my woes I'll speak no more, 
Nor each vain tliougltt which there impatient dwells, 

Waiting for utterance at my bosom's door. 
Rouse, dormant soul I nor sleep when needed most, 
While thy frail bark on adverse seas is tost. 
And all thy comfort, all thy hope is lost ! 
I'll hie me to the prophet's mountain home. 
He shall redeem my darling from tlie tomb, 
Or teach me how, resign'd, to bear ray doom. 

She ceased ; 
A glance of hope o'er her pale features flash'd. 
And with unwonted energy she raised 
Her feeble hands in prayer to heaven. 
Once more she press'd her pallid lips upon 
The marble forehead of her lovely boy, 
Then rising, laid the cold and lifeless load 
irom off her bosom, strong in her despair; 
Tlien wildly throwing bade tlie silken folds 
Which droop'd upon the wall, slie rush'd along, 
Through many a corridor and hall, illumed 
With glittering lamps and gems of burning lustre. 
Her sandall'd feet glanced ligHtly on the floor. 
And her soft tread no answering echo gave ; 
j3ut heavier far her footstep would have been^ 
Bencatii the galling burden on her heart, 
If all had been despair; but the small grain of hope 
Which linger'd still within, her onward course 



164 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Served but to quicken ; something in her soul 

Seern'd battling with its sorrow, and a spark, 

Lighted by liopc, within, a tiny star, 

Shone o'er the ahnost desert gloom of woe. 

She basted on ; and soon her form was lost, 

In its dim outline, amid the windings 

Of her noble mansion. Where hath she gone ? 

Why at this moment leave her lifeless son ? 

What human voice can yield her heart relief? 

What hand redeem her loved one from the dust? 

Return, frail mourner ! and indulge thy grief, 

Where none are nigh to view its heartfelt pangs ; 

Return, nor seek one sympatlictic heart 

In the cold world around thee : thou wilt see. 

Since rankling sorrow hath oppress'd thy soul, 

All who with smiles attended thee before 

Will gaze on thee in scorn, and mock thy tears. 

Nor heed thy bitter groans. Oh better far 

In thine own heart to hide each torturing grief, 

And meet thy sorrow here. But she hath gone ! 

Twilight is stealing on, and she hath gone I 

And where ! — Gaze on yon rugged path, which leads 

Far onward to the mountain's brow, and there 

Behold her toiling on her weary way! 

The thorny brambles meet along her path, 

And close around o'ershadowing thickets grow — 

But still she rushes on — the piercing thorn 

Or fallen bough, alike unheeding all. 

And with despairing heart and weary step 

Reaches the mighty prophet's mountain home. 

The last faint day-streak gleams on Carmcl's brow, 

And lights the tearful traveller on her way, 

As with the holy man of God she turns 

Her sorrowing footsteps backward to her home — 

They enter, and once more she stands beside 

The silent couch of her unconscious boy. 

There, overcome by speechless, mute despair. 

Her agony how great! — Cold, deathlike drops 

Hang on her snowy brow, and, half-distracted 

With o'erwhelming grief, she turns her from the sight 

Of the dear object of iier fondest love. 

Behold the prophet ! Lo I the man of God 
Is lowly bending o'er the couch of death — 
His long, dark mantle floating loosely round 
His tall, majestic form ; his silver locks 
Parted far backward on his noble brow, 
And liis full, piercing eye upraised to heaven ! — 
His hands are clasp'd — the feeble fingers 
Trembling with emotion, and from his lips 
Bursts forth an ardent prayer. He ceased, 
And on the body stretch'd his aged form, 



1834, 



POETICAL REMAINS 165 

Press'd his warm lips upon the marble brow, 
And chafed the inthnt limbs. 
'T is done I — behold, the sleeping child awakes, 
And sweetly smiles upon the holy man ! 
And lo ! the weeping mother clasps iier boy 
Again, redeem'd from the embrace of death. 
And strains hin) to her throbbing heart, as though 
She fear'd the ruthless tyrant yet once more 
Might snatch him from her arms ! 
While the dread prophet stands aloof from all, 
And views the object of his fervent prayer 
Restored again to love, and light, and life ! 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 

Through proud Belshazzar's lofty halls 

A wavering light is streaming, 
And o'er his heaven-defying walls, 

Tiie blaze of torches gleaming. 
Hark ! the voice of music breaks 

Softly on the midnight air, 
Each boisterous shout of laughter speaks 

Of hearts untouch'd by woe or care. 

The sounds of joy harmonious floating 

O'er Euphrates' silver tide, 
Which flows in ripples, gently passing 

Near many a tower of stately pride. 
With mirth, Belshazzar's halls resound, 

Joy spreads each smiling feature o'er, 
And laughing lumdreds gather round 

The red libations, as they pour 

From silver cup, and golden urn. 

Once mantling with the holy wine, 
By impious hands in frenzy torn 

From great Jehovah's sacred shrine. 
Surrounded by each smiling guest. 

In regal ]>omp and splendid state. 
With all save God's approval blest. 

The warrior king serenely sate. 

Their hearts demoniac pleasure found. 

Exulting triumph swell'd their strain, 
While Israel's children, captive, bound, 

Were groaning 'neath their weight of pain 
Bright lamps o'erhung the festive scene. 

Diffusing soften'd brilliance round. 
While mocking Israel's mighty Lord, 

They dash'd his wine-cups to the ground. 

14 



166 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Why- does Belshazzar's lip turn pale ? 

Why shrinks his form with trembling fear ? 
Why fades, within his tig-er eye, 

The scornful glance, the taunting sneer ? 
A shadowy cloud o'erhangs the wall, 

A mighty hand eacli fold reveals ! 
There's silence in that princely hall, 

And trembling awe each vein congeals. 

The mystic fingers darkly move. 

And vv'ords unknown in silence trace ; 
Wide o'er the illumined walls they spread, 

While horror fills each pallid face I 
Oh I who those awful words may read, 

Or who their mighty import tell? 
^ What hand perform'd the fearful deed, 

What tongue may break the magic spell ! 

Come forth, ye Chaldean seers ! come forth, 
* Ye men of Egypt's burning soil I 

Let the dread words your thoughts employ, 

And be the object of your toil I 
Oh, gaze upon the glowing wall! 

Ha ! proud magicians, do ye shrink ? 
Say, docs the sight your hearts appal 

As if on death's terrific brink ? 

Now, strive to win the golden crown. 

The scarlet robe, the badge of power — 
And tell if heaven in justice frown, 

If round your king the tempest lower. 
But still Ihey shrink with innate fear. 

Still from the awful scene retire ; 
While trembling lips proclaim their awe. 

And rouse the monarch's fiercest ire. 

Who may the characters explain. 
When Chaldea's ancient sages fail ? 

Must the dread secret thus remain 
Wrapt in its dark mysterious veil ? 

Come forth, thou man of God, come forth . 

By heaven beloved, by man reviled. 
Robed in the mantle of thy faitli. 

Come forth, Jeiiovah's chosen child ! 
Fear not to read Belshazzar's fate I 

Thy heavenly Father guides tliee still ! 
Though robed in scarlet, throned in state, 

Thy God can mould him at his will. 

Oh, mark his firm, majestic mien I 
Oh, mark his broad and lofty brow ! 

With soften'd courage, calm, serene, 

And flush'd with conscious virtue's glow. 



POETICAL REMAIISS. 16*7 

Well miglit they shrink before the man, 

Wliose gaze had reach'd the realms of bliss, 

Whose eye had pierced a brighter world, 
VVliose spotless soul had soar'd from this. 

Oh, hark ! his firm and manly voice 

Is heard within that princely liall ; 
No more the impious crowds rejoice, 

But thrilling silence spreads o'er all. 
" Oh king ! in wealth, and pride, and power, 

At God's great footstool humbly fall, 
That God hath seal'd thy doom this hour, 

'Tis stamp'd on yonder fated wall. 

" Thy stubborn knee was never bent, 

Thy earthly heart was humbled never 
Before the throne of Israel's God, 

Of'life, of breath, of power the giver. 
Against the Lord of heaven thy hand 

In bold impiety is raised. 
And vessels sacred to his name 

The feasts of idol gods have graced. 

He, in whose balance lords of earth 

With justice, mercy, power, arc tried, 
Hath weigh'd thine errors and thy worth. 

But virtue is o'ercome by pride. 
From death thou art no longer free, 

Thy sun of glory shall decline ; 
Tiie golden crown no inore shall bind 

That proud, ambitious brow of thine. 

" The Medes and Persians shall possess 

That which so lately was thine own ; 
God will e'en now our wrongs redress, 

And hurl thee from thy tottering tlirone.' 
He ceased, — an awful silence rcign'd, 

And chain'd each scarcely throbbing breast. 
Where were the passions once so rude ? — 

LuU'd by the prophet's voice to rest ? 

Gaze on Dclshazzar's pallid brow. 

And trace the livid liorror there ; 
Big drops o'erhang its surface now. 

And backv>'ord stiirts the clustering hair; 
His eyeballs strain'd, and wildly staring 

Upon the spot which bears his doom, 
Seem like a frighted lion glaring 

Through the dark forest's lonely gloom. 
***** 
Morn hath brighten'd o'er Chaldea, 

Morning, lovely, fragrant, bright , 
Glory crowns a night of terror, ^ 

Deeds of darkness view her light. 



16$ MISS :\IARGARET DAVIDSON 

Euphrates' waves are brig^iitiy sparkling 
Benealii Aurora's tosy bcani, 

As tlioug-h the night had never darken'd 
Above its broad and rapid stream. 

The close of evening view'd it smiling, 

Deck'd with barks and forms of Itgiit, 
The weary moments still beguiling, 

Sporting on its bosom bright. 
Where are all its beauties banish'd ? 

Why its banks so lone and still ? 
* Have all its pride and glory vanish'd, 

All save desolation chill ? 

The Mede and Persian have been here, 
Heaven's just vengeance to fulfil ; 

Proud Belshazzar reigns no more, 
God has wrought his sovereign will. 
1534. 



TO MY MOTHEPv OX CHRISTMAS DAY. 

When last this morning brightly shone 

Around my youthful head, 
Inspiring love and joy and glee. 

Dismissing fear and dread, 

I thought not I should see thee here 
Reclining on thy Margaret's breast; 

I thought that in a brighter sphere 
Thy w"eary soul would sweetly rest. 

But since the mighty God above 

Has granted this my fervent prayer, 

My heart is fill'd w ith joy and love 
For all his kindness and his care. 

Ob, may his guardian wings o'erspread. 
To guard from sorrow, pain, or harm, 

My mother's weary aching head, 
And every rising fear disarm. 

May sweet reflections soothe thy cares, 
And fill with peace thy beating heart, 

And may the feast which love prepares 
A sweet security impart. 

When He, who warm'd thy gentle soul, 

And planted every virtue there, 
Shall snatch thee hence to realms of bliss. 

And free from earthly sin and care, 

Oh, may a daughter's tender hand 

The pillow of affliction smooth, 
Teach every grief to lose its pang, 

And every sorrow fondly soothe, 
1834. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 161) 



ON VISITING THE PANORAMA OF GENEVA. 

Oh, if a painter's toucli can form thee thus, 
So brigiit with all an artist's liand can give, 

How passing beautiful tiiose scenes must be, 
Which here inanimate, there sweetly live I 

Each verdant shrub, whicli here inactive bends. 

So gently waving o'er the placid stream. 
And the sweet brook, which winds so silent now, 

Reflecting back the sun's etiulgent beam. 

Look, where the mighty torrent of the Rhone, 
Far, far beyond my wandering eye extends, 

And see yon crumbling fort, wit!i moss o'ergrown, 
O'er whose high walls the weeping willow bends. 

Mark on the right, yon broad expanse of blue, 

Lake Lemaii, placid, beautiful, and fair. 
So gently murmuring, as it flows along. 

Of peace and happiness implanted there. 

And towering far above, the mighty Alps 

Rear their tall heads terrific and sublime. 
Each snow-capp'd summit mingling with the clouds. 

Seems to dely the ravages of time. 

It seems as though the glowing canvass moved. 
Each figure fill'd with life and joy and love, 

As if the darlv blue waters at my Icet 

Would break the chain which binds Ihem there, and move. 

Each hill, each rock seem bursting into life. 

The painter mock'd reality so well ; 
It seems as if tliosc shadowy forms would speak, 

Could they but break the artist's magic spell. 

i8:.v. 



THE FUNERAL BELL. 

Hark ! the loudly pealing bell 

Rises on the morning air; 
Its tones subdued and sadly swell. 

For death, unpitying death is there ! — 
Hark I again it peals aloud. 

Bearing sorrow on its tone ; 
While from the sad assembled crowd, 

Is heard the echoing sob and groan, 
Yes, in that solemn note is heard 

A voice proclaiming woe and death* 
A voice which tells of endless tune. 

Of sorrow's desolating breatli. 
To the warm fancy it would say. 

In words which strike the heart with fear; 



170 MISS MARGARr.T DAVIDSON. 

Words for the thoughtless, vain, and gay. 
Words echoed from the sable bier — 

" A spirit from the world hath fled, 

A soul from earth departed ; 
While mourners weep above the dead. 

Despairing — broken-hearted ! 
Through the vast fields of viewless time 

That conscious soul hath gone ; 
To answer for each earthly crime, 

At God's eternal throne. 

" There at his mighty bar it stands, 

A trembling, guilty thing. 
To answer all his Judge demands. 

Or his dread praises sing ! 
Dust to its kindred dust returns ! 

Earth to its mother earth 1 
Still'd are its passions and its cares, 

And hush'd its voice of mirth. 

"Then learn from this how weak and vain 

Is every earthly gift ; 
Hov/ in one instant all may fade, 

And leave thee thus bereft ! 
When thy fond heart is filled with joy. 

With gay and mirthful feeling, 
Bethink thee, that the form of death 

Beside thee may be stealing ; 
Tliat ere another hour has past, 

That rosy smile may fade, 
And ihe light form that glides so fast, 

In the cold tomb be laid. 

" That the young heart within that cla)', 
To God's dread bar shall pass away, 

And the dim future, dark to thee. 
Shall bear it on its tideless sea. 

To light or darkness, joy or woe. 
Just as thy life hath pass'd below." 

1834. 



VERSES WRITTEN WHEN TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. 
LINES ON RECEIVING A BLANK-BOOK FROM MY MOTHER. 

Though the new year has open'd in sickness and fc;ir, 
Though its dawning has witness'd the sigli and the tenr, 
Though the load on my heart and the weight on my bnsin, 
And the sadness around me cause sorrow and pain, 
Each feeling of woe from my bosom is driven 
Wjiile I vie<V the sweet volume nffection has given. 
And gazing delighted on binding and leaf, 
I forget every thought wliich is tinctured with grief. 



POETICAL REMAINS. lit 

Though it needed no gift from my mother to prove 
The depth of that current of long-cherish'd love, 
Which liath flov/'d on unceasing, unaltcring still, 
Through sorrows unable its bright waves to chill, 
Yet 'tis strangely deligiitful, 'tis sweet to possess 
Some mementos to cherish and gaze on liks this, 
Some gift which long hence may impart to the mind 
Fresh imcs oj' the image there sweetly enshrined: 
Which, when every gay feeling is clouded with night. 
May burst on the soul like an angel of light. 
And presenting unalter'd the visions of love. 
Which had slumber'd awliile the»»nore sweetly to snothu 
May illumine the darkness with radiance sublime. 
But more bright from repose, and unclouded by time. 
Oh, think not, my inothcr, I ever shall part 
From a token thus sootliing, and sweet to my heart; 
That the dear little volume thus coming from thee, 
Shall e'er be less valued, less cherish'd by mc. 
When the fathomless future its page shall unfold, 
When time o'er this head now so youthful has roH'd, 
And Icll mc like others, gray, wither'd and old, 
Then, then shall this gift of the merry new year. 
From the loved one whose spirit no longer is here. 
Impart a sweet sadness, and drav/ the warm tear. 
'T will bring to remembrance my own lovely liome. 
And each feeling, each hope, which is now in its bloom. 
As a fair little talisman bound up with joy 
'T will be clasp'd to my bosom its fond hopes to buoy 
And the love now within it must cease there to dwell, * 

When I bid this dear volume a lasting farewell, 
1835. 



TO FANCY. 

Fly on, aerial Fancy! fly 

i3ack, back llirough many an age, 

To scenes which long have glided by, 
Untold on history's page. 

Oh, stretch thy heavenward wings, and soar 
Through clouds mj'stcrious and sublime, 

To scenes which cartii shall view no more, 
Far down the dark abyss of time. 

Lit by thy pure, celestial torch. 

Earth, heaven, and sea have softly glow'd, 
Nought in created space which ne'er 

To thine enchanting sway hath bow'd. 

Worlds framed and beautified by thee. 
Have glow'd with every rainbow hue, 

And o'(^r each meaner ihing thy fjrm 
Ilalh shed a radiance as it flow. 



172 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

All potent Fancy ! deign to bend 
One glance upon tliy suppliant here ! 

Thy glowing car in kindness send, 
And bear nie to thy beauteous sphere. 

Believe me, thou hast ever been 

The cherish'd monarch of my heart! 

There 's not one thought, one hope, one scene, 
In which thy vagaries have no part. 

Then deign to look w^ith pitying eye 

Upon thy votary's bended form ; 
Disperse each cloud from yonder sky, 
And clasp me in thy guardian arm. 
1835. 



INVOCATION TO SPRING. 

Bend down from thy chariot, oh beautiful Spring, 

Unfold like a standard thy radiant wing. 

And beauty and joy in thy rosy path bring ! 

We long for thy coming, svv'eet goddess of love, 

We watch for tiiy smile in the pure sky above. 

And we sigh for the hour when the wood birds shall sing. 

And nature shall welcome thee, beautiful Spring ! 

How the lone heart will bound as thy presence draws near, 

As if borne from this world to some lovelier sphere ! 

How the fond soul to meet thee in raptures shall rise. 

When thy first blush has tinted the earth and the skies. 

Oh, send thy soft breath on the icy-bound stream, 

'T will vanish, 't will melt, like the forms in a dream. 

Released from its chains, like a child in its glee, 

'T will flow in its beauty, all sparkling and free. 

It will spring on in joy, like a bird on the wing, 

And hail thee with music, oh beautiful Spring I 

I?ut tread with thy foot on the snow-cover'd plain, 

And verdure and beauty shall smile in thy train. 

Only whisper one word with thy seraph-like voice. 

And nature to hear the sweet sound shall rejoice ! 

Oh, Spring! lovely goddess! what form can compare 

With thine so resplendent, so glowing, so fair ? 

What sunbeam so bright as thy own smiling eye. 

At whose glance the dark spirits of v^inter do fly? 

A garland of roses is twined round thy brow, 

Thy cheek like the pale blusii of evening doth glow ; 

A mantle of green o'er thy soft form is spread. 

And the zephyr's light wing gently plays round thy head. 

Oh, couki 1 but mount on the eagle's dark wing, 

And rest ever beside lliee, Spring, beautiful Spring ! 

Methinks, I behold thee ! I hear thy soft voice! 

And in fulness of heart I rejoice ! I rejoice I 



POETICAL REMAINS. 17S 

But the cold wind is moaning, the drear snow doth fail, 
And naught but the shrieking blast echoes my call. 
Oh, heed the trail offering an infant can bring! 
Oh, grant my petition, Spring, beautiful Spring ! 
1835. 



FROM THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINTH PSALM. 

Where from thy presence shall I flee ? 
Where seek a hiding-place from thee? 
If the pure breath of heaven I share, 
Lo ! I shall find thy spirit there ! 
If wandering to the depths of hell, 
I trust in sccresy to dwell, 
Behold ! in all thy power and might. 
Thou, Lord, shalt pierce the veil of night. 
If on the radiant wings of morn 
To unknown lands 1 'm gently borne ; 
There, even tiiero thy hand shall lead 
Thy voice support my sinking head. 
If to my inmost soul I say. 
Darkness and night shall shroud my way, 
That darkness shall dissolve in light. 
And day usurp the throne of night. 
No power can dim thy searching eye. 
Or bid thy guardian spirit fly. 
Thou knowest well each infant thought, 
Which passion, pride, or sin has taught; 
And doubts and fears, but half express'd, 
To thee. Almighty, stand confess'd. 
Plain as the waves of yonder sea, 
Man's subtlest thoughts are known to thee. 
From the small insect tribe, which plays 
Within the sun's enlivening rays. 
To the broad ocean waves, which rise 
In heaving billows to the skies. 
Or great or small, each \vork of thine, 
It whispers of a hand divine. 
Each breeze which fans the twilight hour, 
Speeds onward, guided by thy power ; 
Each wind which wildly sv/eeps abroad, 
Is teeming with the voice of God. 
1835. 



STANZAS. 

The power of mind, the force of genius, 
Oh, what human heart can tell. 

Or the deep and stirring thoughts. 
Which in the poet's bosom dwell ! 



Hi MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The high and holy dreams of heaven, 
Which raise the soul above 

This world of care, this sphere of sin. 
To realms of light and love. 

Oh vpho can tell its energ-y ? 

The spirit's power and might, 
When genius, witli sublimest force, 

Appoints its upward flight, — 

And lifts the struggling soul above 
The prison-house of clay, 

To roam amid the fancied realms 
Of glory and of day ! 

And breathes immortal vigour 
To sustain it through this life, 

The index of a higher world, 
With power and' beauty rile. 

Oh, how sublime the very thought, 
That this frail form of mine 

Contains a spirit destmed soon 
In purer worlds to shine. 

To unfold its infant energies, 

In an immortal clime, 
And far more glorious become 

Each passing hour of time. 

That it contains the heavenly germ 

Of future being now. 
Created there to beautify. 

Where clearer waters How. 

And there expand tlie giov.'ing bud, 
'Mid worlds of light and love. 

Through the bright realms of ether, 
In glor}' still to rove. 



LETTER TO A POETICAL CORRESPONDENT, 

WRITTEN DURING WY ILL.MESS, IN ANSWER TO ONE IN WHICH SHE DE- 
SCRIBES PEGASUS AS BLIND, HALT, AND LAME, AND ENDEAVOURS 'tX) 
CHEER ME WITH THE PROSPECT OF SPEEDY RECOVERY. 

Now, my dear Cousin Maggy, behold me again. 
Relieved in a measure from sickness and pain ; 
With a wcll-sliarpen'd phiz, and a cap on my head, 
Just bidding farewell to the irksome sick bed, 
And endeavouring to tune my enfeebled j'oung lyre 
To a theme which was wont its wild notes to inspire. 



POETICAL REMAINS. ]7& 

'Tis long since the muse to rny aid has descended, 
Or smiling' and pleased, her poor votary befriended ; 
Now tired of entreaties, I '11 court her no more, 
But alone and unaided her realms I '11 explore ; 
So, dear cousin Maggy, condemn not my muse. 
If my verse all its riiyme and its harmony lose, 
For, vex'd with refusals so frequent and long. 
Without her I ve dared to engage in a song ; 
And shielded and guided by Clio no more, 
To meet thy Pegasus I tremblingly soar. 
While confined by the shackles of sickness and pain^ 
For many a day on my couch I had lain. 
And in seeking ^or rest, to my weak frame denied, 
Was tossing fatigued on each sore, aching side, 
There came down a tall spirit of light (as it were,) 
From the realms of the sky and the regions of air ; 
lie dispell'd from my bosom its gloom and its dread, 
And kindled the torchlight of hope in their stead. 
Ah ! then, my dear friend, so great was his power, 
He could lighten my pain, and soothe solitude's hour ; 
Ah why then, my cousin, thus brand him with shame 
Ah v*hy then describe him as "sightless and lame?" 
All noble and lovely he seein'd to ?nine eye, 
And when ceasing to view him I ceased with a sighf' 
His wings were expanded, his eyebeam was fire I 
And that heart had been old he could fail to inspire. 
But alas ! I should fall, did I strive to portray 
Bat one half of the graces which round him did play. 
And held captive my soul v.'ith llieir wildering sway; 
So no more I'll contemplate his charms or thine own, 
Bat try to inform you how vije'rc getting on. 
Dear mother still sits on her old rocking-chair, 
Either thinking, or smiling, or silent with care ; 
Then plying her needle with industry still. 
Or scribbling and wearing some tarnish'd goosequili. 
Dear Matty is thinking of railroads again, 
And longs to get hold of tlie rod and the chain. 
He talks of embankments, canals, and high-bridges, 
Of steam-cars and tunnels, of swamps and of ditches. 
While dear little Kent, with his well-finger'd book, 
Sits gazing around him with complacent look ; 
But alas ! my dear coz, the poor fellow has lost 
The frequent amusement he valued the most ; 
For know, in the midst of our sickness and cares, 
The glass in our parlour was carried up stairs, 
(Other furniture changed — here was station'd a bed,^ 
So a mirror much smaller was placed in its stead. 
And my hapless young brother is able no more 
To admire his own beauty and grace as before ; 
He looks at the tempter all rueful and sad, 
And in vain the attempt to attain it is made, 
And with long, disappointed, and sorrowful mien. 
He retires from the spot to conceal Iiis chagrin. 



176 MISS r>IARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Oh ! join, my dear cousin, M'ith me, and bewail 

That his sources of pleasure tiius early should faiL 

Old Leo, tired out with his frolic and play, 

Lies quietly sleeping the rest of the day; 

While pussy is purring contentedly near. 

Devoid of all care and unconscious of fear. 

But enough of this nonsense I I fain would request 

That my cousin again may be honour'd and blest 

By receiving thy musical Nag as a guest : 

His arrival I'll welcome with heartfelt delight, 

And gaze on his beauties from morning till night. 

Dear uncle and cousins I ne'er can forget, 

With sweet little Georgic, his Aunty, and Kate, 

Give our love to them ali, and yourself must receive 

My warm and my lasting utieclioii. Believe, 

I shall ever remain as I now am to thee. 

Your dear little cousin, and 

Margaret M. D. 
Ballston, 1835. 



STANZAS. 

Though nought but life's sunshine has spread o'er my path. 
Though no real distress has e'er clouded my brow : 

Though the storms of affliction around me have past, 

And shed o'er me nought save the rainbow's bright glow ; 

Though nursed from the cradle with tenderest care, 

Though shelter'd from all that might grieve or distress; 

Though life's pathway has blush'd with the fairest of flowers, 
And my heavenly Father has ceased not to bless ; 

Though the chillness of want and the darkness of woe 
From my joyous young spirit have rapidly fled : 

Though the presence of all whom I clierish and love 
Has not fail'd its sweet influence around me to shed ; 

Still, still there are moments of darkness and grief, 
Which steal o'er my soul like the spirit of woe; 

I know not their coming, I feel not their cause, 
But o'er my rapt spirit they silently flow. 

I feel for a while as some terrible blow 

Had deprived me of comfort, of friends, and of home; 
Then depart they as silent, and leave my freed soul 

Again in the bright path of pleasure to roam. 

Like clouds in the sky of enjoyment they pass, 
And shed o'er my heart a sensation of sadness; 

Like clouds do they glide o'er the surface of light, 
And leave me again to the spirit of gladness. 
1835. 



POETICAL REIVIAINS. 177 

VERSES WRITTEN WHEN TfllUTEEN YEARS OP AGE. 

VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 

Where the stream in its wildness was rusiiing below, 

And the oak in its greatness was bending above, 
Fell Cathba the brave by the hand of his foe, 

By the hand of Duchomar, his rival in love. 

Duchomar repair'd to the cave of the wild, 

Where dweit in her beauty the star of his breast, 
Where she wander'd alone, nature's sensitive child. 

Knowing little of life but its love and its rest. 

'Oh, beautiful daughter of Cormac the proud I 

Oil Morna, thou fairest that eartli can bestow ! 
Why dwellest thou here, 'neath tlie dark, angry cloud ' 

Why dwellest thou here where tlse wild waters flow 'i 

"The old oak is murmuring aloud \i\ the blast, 

Which ruffles the breast of the far distant sea. 
The storm o'er the heavens his thick veil hath cast, 

And the sky in its sternness is frowning on thee ! 

" But thou art like snow on the black, wither'd heath. 

Thy ringlets are soft as the mist of the night, 
When it winds round the broad hill its delicate wreath, 

By the sun at its parting made gorgeously bright." 

" Wience comest thou, man of the fierce-rolling eye ?'* 
Said the beautiful maid of tlie dark flowing hair; 
Oh proud is thy bearing, and haughty, and high, 
And thy brow, there is darkness and gloominess there. 

" Perchance thou hast heard from our focman of blood ; 

Doth Swaran appear on the broad-heaving sea, 
Doth he pour en our coast like the deep raging flood ? 

What tidings from Lochlin, Duchomar, for me?" 

" No tidings from Lochlin, oh Morna, T bring, 

I come from the chase of the fleet-footed deer ; 
My arrows have sped like the eagle's swift wing. 

And the scatheless have fled from my presence for fear. 

" Three deer at my feet in the death-pang have laid, — 

Fair daughter of Cormac, one perish'd for thee ; 
As my soul do I love thee, oh white-handed maid ! 

And queen of my heart ever more shalt thou be !" 
15 



178 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" Duchomar !" tlie maiden with firmness replied, 

" No portion of love do I cherish for thee ; 
For thy bosom is dark with its passions and pride, 

And fickle thy heart as the wide-rolling sea. 

" But Cathha ! thou only shall Morna adore, 
Thine image alone this fond bosom shall fill; 

Oh bright are thy locks as the sunbeams of day, 
When the mists of the valley are climbing the hill. 

*' Hast thou seen him, Duchomar, young Cathha the brave ? 

Hast thou seen the fair chief on his pathway of light? 
The daughter of Cormac flic miglity is here 

To welcome her love when he comes from the fight." 

*' Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna !" he cried. 
And fiercely and sullenly gazed on the maid, 

" Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna ! for here 
Is the blood of thy chief on Duchomar's dark blade. 

"Cold, cold is thy hero, and slain by my hand, 
His tomb will I rear upon Cromla's dark liills; 

Oh turn on Duchomar thy soft-beaming eye. 

For his arm is like liglitning, which withers and kills." 

"Has he fallen in dcatli, the brave offspring of Torman?" 
The maiden exclaim'd in the accents of woe, 

"The first in the chase, and the foremost in battle, — 
Oh sad is my bosom, and dark was the blow! 

"And dark is Duchomar, and deadly his vengeance. 

He hutli blasted each hope u'hicli was briglit in the hurl ; 

Fell foe unto Morna, oh lend me thy weapon. 
For Cathha I loved, and I still love his blood." 

He yielded the sword to her mourning and siglis, — 
She plunged the red blade in his fast-heaving side; 

And he lay by the stream, as the blasted oak lies, 
Till raising his hand he indignantly cried, 

" Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! thy blow 

Hath cut off my youth from the fame I love best; 

My glory hath fled like a pale wreath of snow. 
And Morna ! thy weapon is cold in my breast. 

"Oh give me to Moina, the maiden of beauty, 

Her dreams in the darkness are fraught with my name, 

My tomb she will raise in the caves on the mountain. 
That hunters may welcome the mark of my fame. 

" She will hang o'er my grave like the mists of the morning. 
And dwell on my memory with fondness and pride, — 

But my bosom is cold, and the lifeblood is ebbing. 
Oh Morna, draw forth the cold blade from my side ** 



POETICAL REiMAINS. 179 

Slowly and sadly she came at his bidding, 

And drew forth the sword from his fast- bleeding breast, 

Put he plunged the red steel in her own lovely bosom, 
And laid her fair form on tiic damp earth to rest. 

Her tresses dishevell'd around her were flowing, 

The blood gurgling fast from the wide-gaping wound, 

And the eye that was bright, and the cheek that was glowing. 
In dimness and pallor and silence were bound. 

Oh Morna ! he thou as tlie moon, when its light 

Shines forth from her throne on the ligiit fleecy cloud, 

To watch o'er the grave of thy lover at night. 
And wrap his cold tomb in thy silvery shroud. 
i835. 



TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER'S DEATH. 

Ah, where art thou wandering, sweet spirit of song. 
Who once bore my rapt fancy on bright wings slong ? 
That soaring from earth, witii its cares and its pains. 
It might bathe in the light of thy seraph-like strains ? 

Ah, whither art fled in thy beauty and gladness? 

Why leave me in silence thy loss to bewail ? 
Dost thou shrink from the heart that is tinctured witii sadness, 

The eye that is dimm'd, or the cheek that is pale? 

Since last waved around me thy pinions of light. 

The chillness of sorrow hath breathed o'er my home, 

For one joyful young spirit hath taken its flight, 
One icy -cold form has been borne to the tomb, 

Like a flow'ret of summer, he wither'd and died 
In the springtime of beauty, of youth, and of pride ; 
In the freshness of hope he was borne to his tomb, 
And the home of his kindred is shadow'd with gloom. 

Then return to my bosom, thou wakener of joy. 

Oh touch with thy fingers my drooping young lyre ! 

Awake it to pleasures time ne'er can destroy. 
And its chords with a heavenly calmness inspire. 

1836. 



180 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



LINES, 

ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANS's 
"RECORDS OF WOMAN." 

On, pause not yet, for many an hour 

I'd lend a raptured ear, 
The thrilling-, melting- sweetness 

Of that seraph strain to hear. 

Dispel not yet the soften'd joy 

'I'hose gentle tones impart. 
While painting in such vivid hues, 

The worth of woman's heart. 

Priestess of song ! could we but feeJ 

The value of thine own, 
How many a soul would bow before 

Thy spirit's lofty throne. 

How many now elated 

With the muse's faintest smile, 

Would turn tliem to tliy radiant shrine, 
And worship there awhile. 

With softest touch thy magic hand 

Awaked the sleeping lyre. 
To all a woman's tenderness, 

And all a poet's fire. 

And proudly soar'd thy lofty mmd 

Each earthly thought above, 
And vainly sought thy woman's heart 

For something more to love. 
1836. [Unfinished.] 



AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND. 

Though thousands pass the mourners by, 
And scorn the suppliant's bended knee, 

"Hope springs exulting" to t!ie eye, 
When sorrow turns its glance on thee. 

For soft compassion's slumbering ray. 
And pity's melting glance is there, 

To chase the sufferer's fears away, 

And soothe to calmness wild despair. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 181 

Oh fan to life the kindling spark, 

Till brightly burns its radiant flame, 
For thou art fortune's favour'd child, 

And I would plead in mercy's name. 

Scan the dark page of life, and say 

If there thy searching eye can find 
A woe more keen, a fate more sad. 

Than that which marks the helpless blind. 

Launch'd forth on life's uncertain path, 

Its best and brightest gift denied. 
No power to pluck its fragrant flowers, 

Or turn its poisonous thorns aside ; 

No ray to pierce the gloom within. 

And chase the darkness with its light ; 
No radiant morning dawn to win 

His spirit from the shades of night. 

Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair. 

Casts a bright glow o'er life's dark stream, 

Nature, sweet soother of our care, 
fia« not a single smile for him. 

When pale disease, with blighting hand. 

Crushes each budding hope awhile, 
Our eyes can rest in sweet delight 

On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile. 

Not so with kijn — his soul, chain'd down 

By doubt, and loneliness, and care. 
Feels but misfortune's chilling frown, 

And broods in darkness and despair. 

Favour'd by heaven! oh haste thee on, — ' 

Thy blest Redeemer points the way, — 
Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour 

The light of intellectual day. 

Thou canst not raise their drooping lids, 

And wake them to the noonday sun ; 
Thou canst not ope what God hath closed, 

Or cancel aught His hands have done. 

But oh ! there is a world within. 

More bright, more beautiful than ours; 
A world which, nursed by culturi ng hands, 

Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers? 

And thou canst make that desert mind 
Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose ; 

15* 



182 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Thou canst illume that rayless void, 
Till darkness like the day-beam glows. 

Thou canst implant the brilliant gem 
Of thought, in each benighted soul, 

Till back from radiance so divine 
The clouds of ignorance shall roll. 

Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray 
O'er each beclouded mind within, 

Than pours the glorious orb of day 
On this dark world of care and sin. 

Prize you a self-approving mind ? 

Then lay thine offering here; 
The clouded orbits of the blind 

Shall yield a grateful tear. 

Would'st thou the blessings of that band 
Should crowd tliy path below ? 

That hearts, enlighten'd by thy hand, 
With gratitude should tlow ? 

And would'st thou seek the matchless lov" 
To God's own children given, 

A conscience calmly resting 'neath 
The fav'ring smiles of Heaven ? 

Then speed thee on in mercy's cause. 
And teach the blind to see ; 

" Hope springs exulting" in the eye 
That sorrowing turns to thee. 

And warmest blessings on thy head, 
Full many a voice shall call ; 

And tears upon thy memory shed. 
Like Hermon's dew shall fall ' 

* And when the last dread day has come, 
Which seals thy endless doom ; 
When the freed soul sliall seek its home, 
And triumph o'er the tomb; 

When lowly bends each reverend knoe. 
And bows each heart in prayer, 

A band of spirits, saved by thee. 
Shall plead thy virtues there I 
1836. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 1H3 

THE SMILES OF NATURE 

Thkre's a smile above, and a smile below, 
In the clouds that roll, and the waves that flow: 
Is the heart unehain'd by sorrow's thrall, 
There 's a smile of joy and of peace in all! 
There 's a smile on the brow of the waken d day, 
When he gilds the east with his glov/ing ray, 
And a smile on his brow when he sinks to rest, 
Like the saint wlio expires on his Maker's breast. 
There arc pensive smiles on the evening sky. 
Which raise the thougiits to the pure and high, 
Which speak to the soul of its glad release, 
And tune its quivering chords to peace. 
Tlie flow'rets ope witii the rising sun, 
And wither and die ere hU race is run; 
Yet a smile is shed o'er their transient bloom, 
Adorning the path to their early tomb. 
There 's a smile on the hrow of the gorgeous sprmg, 
When she spreads o'er the valley her radiant wmg ; 
As she calms the wild winds with her fragrant breath, 
And decks the glad earth in her beautiful wreath. 
There 's a smile on the rose, though 'twill cease to bloom ; 
There 's a smile on the stream, though the storm may come; 
There 's a smile in the sky, thougli the clouds may roll 
Like sin o'er the depths of the human soul ! 
Thus, all that is lovely is form'd for decay. 
But the pure beams of heaven are shed o'er the way- 
There are varied smiles on a mortal's brow. 
Which speak of the soul from its depths below ; 
But they too vanish, when brightest they beam. 
And bury their light in the world's dark stream. 
For the lieart of man is the throne of guile, 
And sin can shadow each mortal smile ; 
And the blossoms of light which are planted there. 
Are weaken'd by passion, or wither'd by care. 
There 's a haughty smile on the conqueror s brow, 
As the nations of earth at his footstool bow ; 
But that smile is chill as the frozen stream 
Which glitters pule in the moon's cold beam , 
It speaks of ambition, of pride, and of sin, 
Which rankle and swell the dark bosom withm. 
There 's a smile on the brow of aspiring man. 
As he pauses tlie works of his hand to scan. 
And gazes far up to that gorgeous height 
Which is guarded by danger, and terror, and night 
But 't is cold as the bosom from whence it came. 
And is lost in the splendours of grandeur and lame, 
There 's a beaming smile upon beauty's brow, 
As the young and the gay at her altar bow; 
'Tis brilliant, 'tis dazzling, 'tis passing fair, 
But the heart in its freshness is wanting there. 



184 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

There 's a sunny smile on the infant's lip, 
As he pauses the cup of enjoyment to sip; 
But a moment more shall have hurried by, 
And that smile will fade from his clouded eye ; 
Some childish sorrow, or childish sin. 
Shall cast its shade o'er tiie depths within. 
Then where shall we seek for a perfect smile, 
\ If beauty hath sorrow, and youth hath guile ? 
If the clouds of pride and ambition roll 
O'er the inmost depths of the deathless soul ? 
Oh Nature ! the soul is a spark divine, 
But I turn from its light for a smile of thine ; 
The soul in its greatness must ever endure, 
But thou, in thy freshness, art holy and pure ! 
Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 
VVijich gladden the bosom and rapture the eye; 
Though transient the radiance, though fleeting the smile, 
They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile ! 
But light up the tremulous chords of the soul. 
Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control : 
For the soft smiles of nature around us are cast, 
To light, with their brilliance, the world's weary waste. 
To call the lone heart from its sadness away, 
And shed o'er its darkness a magical ray ! 
When oppress'd with the cares and sorrows of life, 
The spirit turns back from its turmoil and strife, 
When it longs to be happy, and sighs to be free. 
Oh nature, 'tis cheer'd by communion with thee. 
Though the waters may rise, and the sky be o'ercast ; 
Though rages the tempest, and whistles the blast ; 
Though thy brow may be shaded in darkness and fear, 
He can read there a lesson to solace and cheer. 
As the soft rays of sunshine succeed to thy frown ; 
As the rainbow encircles thy brows like a crown ;' 
As the tempest rolls off which had reigned there awhile, 
And bursts forth in radiance the light of thy smile, 
So gently the shadows of sorrow depart. 
And hope dawns again on the desolate heart. 
And points from thy glories to glories more pure 
From thy fiist-fading beauties to charms which endure. 
And leads the rapt soul from its sinful abode, 
To commune for awhile wifh its Maker and' God. 
Oh Nature ! what art thou ?— a mighty lyre. 
Whose wings are swept by an angel choir; 
Wiiose music, attuned by a hand divine. 
Thrills a chord in each bosom responsive to thine, 
And whose gentle strain, as it softly swells. 
Soothes many a bosom where sadness dwells; 
While the joyous and happy, the youthful and gay. 
Pluck the flowers from thy garland and speed on their way. 
Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 
Which gladden the bosom, and rapture tJse eve 



POETICAL REMAINS. 1S5 

Though fleeting the radiance, though transient the smile, 
They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile, 
But Jiglit up the tremulous chords of the soul, 
Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control. 
1835. 



ON A ROSE, 

RECEIVED FROM MISS SEDGWICK. 

And thou art fading too, my rose, 

Tliy healthful bloom is fled. 
From thy pule flower the leaves unclose, 

And bows thy pallid head. 

I knev7 how quickly fades away 

Each brighter, lovelier thing. 
And did not deem that thou couldst stay, 

Thou fairest rose of spring. 

But I have watch'd thy varying hue, 

As fading hour by hour, 
And mourn'd that thou must perish too, 

My lovely, chcrish'd flower. 

Oh, 'tis a mournful thing to see 
How all that's fair must die ; 

How death will pluck the sweetest bud, 
On his cold breast to lie. 

'Tis sad to mark his icy hand 

Destroy our all that's dear. 
In silent, shivering awe to stand, 

And know his footstep near. 

Yet 'twere unmeet that thou shouldst live, 
When man himself must die; 

That death should cull each human form, 
And pass the flow'ret by. 

Why do I mourn for thee my rose, 

When graven in my heart, 
I read a deeper sorrow there 

Than thou could'st e'er impart. 

For one who came from heaven awhile 

To bless the mourners here ; 
Their joys to hallow with her smile, 

Their sorrows with her tear; 



186 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Who join'd to all the charms of earth 
The noblest gifts of heaven ; 

To whom the Muses, at her birth, 
Their sweetest smiles had given ; 

Whose eye beam'd forth with fancy's ray, 
And genius pure and high ; 

Whose very soul had seem'd to bathe 
In streams of melody, — 

Was all too like to thee, my rose, 

As fragile and as fair ; 
For, while her eye most brightly beam'd, 

The mark of death was there. 

The cheek which once so sweetly bloom'd. 

Grew pallid with decay ; 
The burning fire within consumed 

Its tenement of clay. 

Death, as if fearing to destroy. 
Paused o'er her couch awhile; 

She gave a tear for those she loved, 
Then met him with a smile. 

Oh, who may tell what angel bands 
Convey'd that soul away ; 

And who may tell what tears were shed 
Above that lifeless clay. 

They laid her in the silent grave. 
The moist earth for her bed ! 

And placed the rose and violet 
To blossom o'er her head ! 

But though unseen by mortal eye, 
She seem'd not to depart. 

Her memory linger'd still below 
In every kindred heart; 

As if her pure unfetter'd soul 
Return'd to earthly things, 

And spread o'er all her cherish'd scenes 
The shadow of her wings. 

Still thou art like to her, my rose. 
Though bending in decay ; 

The tyrant death can never take 
Thy fragrant breath away. 

Like thee, my rose, she bloom'd and died, 
Like thee, her life was brief; 

And to her name remembrance clung. 
Like perfume to thy leaf. 



POETICAL REMAINS 187 

But when the torch of memory burn a 

With fainter, feebler flame, 
The pen of Sedgwick spread anew 

A lustre round her name. 

For this our daily gratitude 

In raptures shall ascend ; 
For this a sister's blessings 

And a mother's prayer shall blend. 

And if the Lord of heaven permjts 

His sainted ones to know 
The varied scenes of joy and grief 

Which mark the world below; 

Then she will bend her angel form. 

With heavenly raptures fired, 
And bless the hand which penn'd the tale, 

The genius which inspired. 



1837. 



THE CHURCH-GOING BELL. 

How sweet is the sound of tlie church-going bell 
When it bursts on the ear with its full rich swell, 
So slow and so solemn it peals through the air, 
It seems as if calling the soul to prepare 
To meet in his temple, so holy and pure, 
The Saviour, whose presence shall ever endure; 
To unburthen the conscience — devoutly to kneel- 
To pray for the pardon of sins which we feel ; 
Before our almighty Preserver to bow, 
With a purified soul, and a heart humbled low. 
1837, [UnHnislu'd.] 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh, for a something more than this, 
To fill the void within my breast ; 

A sweet reality of bliss, 

A something bright, but unexpress'd ! 

My spirit longs for something higher 
Than fife's dull stream can e'er supply ; 

Something to feed this inward fire, 

This spark, which never more can die. 



188 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 

I'd dwell with all that nature forms 

Of wild or beautiful or gay, 
Bow, when she clothes the heaven with storms 

And join her in her frolic play. 

I 'd hold companionship with all 
Of pure, of noble, or divine ; 

With glowing heart adoring fall, '_ 
And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine. 

My soul is like a broken lyre, 

Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone; • 

A note, half trembling on the wire, 
A heart that wants an echoing tone. 

Where shall I find this shadowy bhss, 
This shapeless phantom of the mind? 

This something words can ne'er express. 
So vague, so faint, so undefined ? 

Language . thou never canst portray 
The iancies floating o'er my soul ! 

Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away 
Which o'er my changing visions roll ! 

1837. 



FRAGMENT. 

On, I have gazed on forms of light. 
Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear — 

Till in that fleeting space of sight 
Were merged the feehngs of a year. 

And I have heard the voice of song, 
Till my full heart gush'd wild and free, 

And my rapt soul would float along 
As if on waves of melody 

But while I glow'd at beauty's glance, 

I long'd to feel a deeper thrill : 
And while I heard that dying strain, 

I sigh'd for something sweeter still. 

I have been happy, and my soul 

Free from each sorrow, care, regret; 

Yet ever in those hours of bliss 
I long'd to find them happier yet. 

Oft o'er the darkness of my mind 

Some meteor thought has glanced at will; 

*T was bright — but ever have I sigh'd 
To find a fancy brighter still. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 199 

Why are these restless, vain desires, 

Which always grasp at something more 
To feed the spirit's hidden fires, 

Which burn unseen, unnoticed soar? 

Well might the heathen sage have known 

That earth must fail the soul to bind ; 
That Ufe, and life's tame joys, alone, 

Could never chain the ethereal mmd. 

1837. 



WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN. 
ON RETURNING TO BALLSTON, 

AFTER THE DEATH OF A LITTLE BROTHER. 

Yes I this is home ! the home we loved before, 

The dear retreat wc hope to leave no more ! 

Since first we mourn'd tliy calm enjoyments fled, 

Two weary years with silent steps have sped ; 

And ah ! in that short space what scenes have past . 

Death has been with us since we saw thee last ! 

Yes ! robed in gloom he came, the tyrant Death, 

To blight our fairest with his chilling breath. 

He stole along beneath the smiles of spring, 

When youthful hearts to life most fondly cling ; 

The loveliest flowers were blushing 'neath his tread ; 

He stole the sweetest of them all, and fled I 

In vain, my brotlicr, now we look for thee. 

Thy form elastic, and thy step of glee ; 

In vain we strove our thoughts from thee to win. 

Our hearts recoiling feel the void within. 

Alas I alas ! thou dear and cherish'd one. 

How soon on earth thy tranquil course was run I 

Like some bright stream that pours its waves to-day. 

Glides gently on, and vanishes away ! _ « 

A brief, brief time has pass'd with giant stride. 

And thou hast lived, hast sufler'd, and hast died ! 

Memory, unmindful of the lapse between. 

Paints "tbrth in vivid hues that closing scene ; 

The more we gaze, we feel its truth the more. 

And live in thought those painful moments o'er. 

We see his form upon its couch of pain. 

We hear his soft and trembling voice again ; 

Grief forcing from our lips the shuddering groan, 

And sweet composure breathing from his own. 

The earth was clothed in spring's enlivening hue, 

The faded buds were bursting forth anew. 

The birds were heard in sweet, melodious strain. 

And Nature woke to radiant life again, 



190 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

While he, too fragile for this world of strife, 

Prepared to blossom in a holier life, 

Tlie glowing spring of heaven's eternal year 

Was usherM in by all that's loveliest here; 

Earth, robed in Nature's fairest, best arra}', 

Led on his fluttering soul to purer day. 

The soft winds fann'd him where his couch was laid, 

On his hot brow the cooling breezes play'd, 

And in his hand (fit type of early death,) 

Was clasp'd a faded flower, a wither'd wreath. 

Hush'd was each bursting groan, each tumult wild. 

Around the death-bed of that darling child ; 

O'er each sad heart an awful trembling crept; 

E'en grief, o'erpower'd, a solemn stillness kept. 

His soul, beyond the grasp of care and strife, 

Stood on the confines of a deathless life ; 

His gaze was fix'd upon « * * 

The lapse between eternity and time ; 

His eye was beaming with intenser light," 

As broke new glories on his fading sight. 

Oh, who may tell that hour of thrilling dread, 

That midnight vigil by his dying bed ! 

When his young spirit left its shrine of claj'. 

And sped through worlds unknown its pathless way ! 

Melhinks e'en now I see his speaking face, 

Death on his brow, and in his bosom peace. 

When soft he whisper'd, while the accents fell 

Like the soft murmurings of the passing gale. 

While his cheek glow'd with death's intensest bloom, 

"Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come 1"' 

Yes I thy last hour of pain, thou darling boy. 

The opening scene to endless years of joy ! 

Oh, never more, till memory's sun shall set, 

Can I that thrilling scene of death forget ! 

His earnest gaze, his bright and glowing cheek 

Beaming with tiroughts his tongue no more could speak, 

His soul just hastening to the realms on high. 

While all earth's love was kindling in his eye. 

Alas ! it fades, that deep, unearthly glow. 

And the cold drops stand quivering on his brow 

Death has o'ercome ! 'tis nature's closing strife, 

The last, last struggle of departing life I 

List to tliat sigh ! the poison'd shaft has sped, 

And his young spirit to its home hath fled. 

The silver chord is broke, dissolved the tie ! 

Alas! alas! how all that's fair must die ! 

Hark to that heavenly strain, so loud, so clear, 

Rising so sweet on fancy's listening ear ! 

Hark I 't is an angel's song, a voice of glee, 

A welcome to the soul, unchain'd and free I 

On, on it flows in ceaseless tides again. 

Till the rapt spirit echoes to the strain, 



POETICAL REMAINS. I^l 

Till on the wings of song it soars away, 
To track its kindred soul through realms ot day . 
Hark to that lyre, more sweet than all beside; 
Mother ! 't is hers! oh, weep not that she died . 
Hark to that voice, so melting and so clear, ^ 
The same, my father, thou wert wont to hear . 
And mark that train of infant spirits come 
To lead their brother to his glorious home ! 
All, all are yours ! and all shall gather there. 
To lead your spirits from this world of care ; 
Then weep no more ; your darling son is blest, 
And his young soul has enter'd into rest. 
1837. 

TWILIGHT. 

Twilight ! sweet hour of peace, 
Now art thou stealing on ; 
Cease from thy tumult, thought ! and fancy, cease . 
Day and its cares have gone. 
Mysterious hour. 
Thy magic power 
Steals o'er my heart like music's softest tone. 

The golden sunset hues 
Are fading in the west; 
The gorgeous clouds their brighter radiance lose, 
Folded on evening's breast. 

So doth each wayward thought. 
From fancy's altar caught. 
Fade like thy tints, and muse itselt to rest. 
Cold must that bosom be. 

Which never felt thy power,- 
Which never thrill'd with tender melody 
At this bewitching hour; 
When nature's gentle art 
Enchains the pensive heart ; 
When the breeze sinks to rest, and shuts the fragrant flower. 

It is the hour for pensive thought. 
For memory of the past, 
For sadden'd joy, for chasten'd hope 
Of brighter scenes at last ; 
The soul should raise 
Its hymn of praise. 
That calm so sweet on life's dull stream is cast. 
Wearied with care, how sweet to hail 
Thy shadowy, calm repose. 
When all is silent but the whispering gale 
Which greets the sleeping rose; 
When, as thy shadows blend. 
The trembling thoughts ascend. 
And borre aloft, the gates of heaven unclose. 



192 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Forth from the warm recess 
The chain'd affections flow, 
And peace, and love, and tranquil happiness 
Their mingled joys bestow ; 
Charmed by the mystic spell, 
The purer feelings swell. 
The nobler powers revive, expand, and glow. 
1837. 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF A BROTHER 

Brother ! I need no pencilfd form 

To bring back glowing thouglUs of thee ; 

Love's pencil, bathed in hues of light, 
Shall trace the page of memojy. 

There they shall live, eacli look or smile, 
Each gentler word, or look, or tone ; 

Fancy shall view love's work the while, 
And add rich colouring of her own. 

How throbb'd my heart with sweet delight, 
When hope beheld thy near return ! 

Nor thought that day precedes tlie night. 
And hearts the happiest soonest mourn. 

Why knew I not that joy like mine 
Was never, never formed to last? 

That pleasures only live to die. 

And, ere wc feel them, ours are past ? 

Oh ! turn not from my strain away, - 
Nor scorn it, simple though it be I 

It is a sister's sorrowing lay, 
A token of her love for thee. 

Oh ! that a prophet's eye were mine, 
To read the shrouded future o'er ! 

Oh ! that the glimmering lamp of time 
Could cast its mystic rays before ! 

Then would I trace thy devious way 
Along the chequer'd path of life"; 

Discern each pure, reviving ray. 

And mark each changing scene of strife. 

Oh ! if a sister's partial hand 

Could weave the web of flite for thee, 

Pleasure should wave her mystic wand, 
And all thy life be harmony. 

Peace, foolish heart! a wiser Power 
Thy hand shall guide, thy footsteps lead ; 

Each bitter grief, each rapturous hour 
F'y Mis nrirrririn[- wiU doorred. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 193 

Farewell, my brother ! and believe, 

Throug-li every scene of weal or woe, 
A sister's heart with thine shall grieve. 

With thine in rapturous joy shall glow. 

Each morn and eve a mother's prayer 

With mine shall seek the courts above: 
A mother's blessing' rest on thee, 

Einbalm'd in all a mother's love. 
1837. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AFTER KEADING ACCOUNTS OF THE DEATH OK .M.\RTYRa 

Speak not of life, I could not bear 
A life of foul disgrace to share ! 
Wealth, fame, or honour's fleeting breath, 
What are they to tiiis glorious death ? 
Think ye a kingdom back could win 
My spirit to this world of sin ! 
Think ye a few more years of strife 
• Could draw me from eternal life ? — 

Dark is the path to Canaan's shore. 
But Jesus trod the path before I 
He hath illumed the grave for me, — 
My Saviour ! I will die for thee ! 
Yes I lead me forth; in faith secure, 
The keenest anguisli I'll endure! 
And while my body feeds the flame, 
My soul its bright reward shall claim ! 
Soon shall these earthlj'^ bonds decay. 
This trembling frame return to clay, 
And earth, enrobed in clouds of night, 
Shall fade for ever from my sight. 
But who would mourn a home like this. 
When gather'd to that iiome of bliss ? 
•But there is many a tender tie 
Would shake my firm resolve to die ; 
Cords which entwine my longing heart 
Affection's death alone can part. 
Jesus, forgive each faltering thought, 
Which weaker, earlier love hath taught; 
Forgive the tears which struggling flow 
To view a mother's, sister's woe. 
Forgive this grief, though weak it be. 
Nor deem my spirit turn'd from thee ! 
Raise my unworthy soul above 
The tempting wiles of earthly love! 
Soon shall each torturing pang be o'er. 
And tears like these shall flow no more; , 

16* 



194 MISS MARGAKh:T DAVIDSON. 

And those I love so deepl}'^ here 
Shall meet me in j'on heavenly sphere. 
Love ! what have I, compared to thine ! 
Love, pure, ineffable, divine ! 
Love which could bring a God below 
To taste a mortal's cup of woe ; 
To weep in agony, to sigh. 
To bear a nation's scorn — to die ! 
Oh, love ! undj'ing, godhke, free, 
All else is swallow'd up in thee. 
Soon shall I also soar above, 
To dwell with thee, for " God is lovc^ 
Yes ! pile the blazing fagots high, 
Till the bright flames salute the sky ! 
From each devouring pile you raise, 
Shall soar a hymn of love and praise, 
And the firm stake you rear for me, 
The gate to endless life shall be. 
But oh, ye frail, deluded train. 
How will ye meet your Lord again ! 
" Father ! their crimes in mercy view ! 
Forgive, they know not what they do I" 
^ 1837. 



ON READING COWPER'S POEMS. 

Ciiarm'd with thy verse, oh bard, I fain would raise 
A feeble tribute teeming with thy praise ; 
For thee, oh Cowper, touch the trembling string, 
And breathe the thoughts the muse inspires to sing ; 
For thee, whose soul delighted oft to roam 
O'er the pure realms of thine eternal home ; 
Who, scorning folly's smile, or fancy's dream, 
Made truth tiiy guide and piety thy theme ; 
Who loved to soar where heaven's own glories shuie, 
And tuned tlie lyre to harmonies divine I 
Whose strains, when pour'd by faith's directir>g voice. 
Made doubt recede, and certainty rejoice; 
-Whose lofty verse, by sterner justice led, 
Made unbelievers, trembling, shrink with dread. 
Oh that each bard, from earthborn passions free, 
Might tread the path thus nobly mark'd by thee, 
And teaching song to plead in virtue's cause, 
Might win, hke thee, a grateful world's applause ! 
Knowing from whence thy matchless talents came. 
Thou fanned'st to purer life the kindling flarne, 
And breathing all thy thoughts in numbers sweet. 
Laid them adoring at thy Maker's feet. 
Thus teaching man that ail his nobler lays 
Should rise o'erflowing with that Maker's praise. 



POETICAL RExMAINS. 195 

That his enraptured muse should firmly own 
The claims of trulli, and faith, and love alone! 
That he, who feels within the fire divine, 
Should nurse ihe flame to grace God's holy shrine. 
Let those who bask in passion's burning ray. 
Who own no rule but fancy's changeful sway, 
Who quench their burning thirst in folly's stream. 
And waste their genius on each grosser theme, 
Let tlieni turn back on life's tumultuous sea. 
And humbly gazing, learn this truth from thee; 
That virtue's hand the poet's lamp must trim, 
And its clear light, unwavering, point to JIwi, 
Or all its brilliance shall have glow'd in vain. 
And hours misspent shall win him years of pain. 
1837. 



STANZAS. 

Oh, who may tell the joy, the bliss. 

Which o'er the realm of fancy streams; 

The varied streams of light and life, 

Which deck the poet's world of dreams ? 

The ransom'd soul may speed its flight, 
To live and grow in realms above; 

May bathe in floods of endless light. 
And live eternal years of love. 

But oh, what voice hath e'er reveal'd 
The glories of that blest abode. 

Save the faint whisperings of the soul, 
The mystic monitors of God ? 

Thus may the poet's spirit dance 
And revel in his world of joy, 

May form creations at a glance, 
And myriads at a word destroy. 

But mortal ear can never hear 
The music of that seraph band ; 

Nought save the faint, unearthly tones 
Just wafted from that spirit-land. 

None but the poet's soul can know 
The wild and wondrous beauty there; 

The streams of light, which ever flow, 
The ever music-breathing air. 

His spirit seeks this heaven awhile. 
Entranced in glowing dreams of bliss 

Lives in the muses' hallow'd smile. 
And bathes in founts of happiness. 



190 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Then, when he sinks to earth again, 
His hand awakes the trembling- lyre, 

He strives to breathe a burning strain, 
Kindled at fancy's altar-fire. 

But oh, how frail the trembling notes, 
Compared * * * 

* « * * 

1837. 



FRAGMENT. 

'TwAs the song of the evening spirit I it stole, 
Like a stream of delight, o'er the listening soul. 
And the passions of earth — ^joy, or sorrow, or pain — 
Were absorb'd in tlie notes of that heavenly strain. 
My heart scem'd to pause as the spirit came nigh. 
And, array'd in its garment of music pass'd by ! 
" I am coming, oh earth ! I am hasting away, 
With my star-spangled crown and my mantle of graj' ; 
I have come irom n}y bower in the regions of light, 
To recline on the breast of my parent. Night ! 
To soften the gloom in her mournful eye. 
And guide her steps through the darken'd sky I 
I come to the earth in my mystic array ; 
Rest, rest from the toils and the cares of the day ! 
I will lull each discordant emotion to sleep. 
As I hush the wild waves of the turbulent deep, 
And my watch o'er the couch of their slumbers I keep. 
The streams murmur 'peace,' as I steal through the sky 
And hush'd are the winds, Vv^hich swept fitfully by ; 
The bee nestles down on the breast of the rose, 
And the wild birds of summer are seeking repose. 
All nature salutes me, so solemn, so fair, 
And a glad shout of Vv^elcomc is borne on the air. 
Now, now is the moment, and here is the way 
For the spirit to mount from its temple of clay, 
And soar on my pinions to regions sublime, 
Beyond the broad flight of the giant-wing'd Time" 
1837. [Unfinished.] 



IMITATION OF A SCOTCH BALLAD. 

Sweets of the glowing spring 

Float on the air ; 
Gaily the birdies sing, 

Banishm' care. 
Softly the burnies flow, 
Gently the breezes blow, 
J to my Jeanie, oh, 

Gaily repair. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 107 

Fair as the simmer flower 

Sipp'd by the bee ; 
Blithe as the weenie birds 

Singin' their glee; 
Fresh as the drappin' dew, 
Pure as the gowan's hue, 
Ever gay an' ever true. 

Is Jeanie to me. 

Bright as the govvden beam 

Gildin' the morn ; 
Sweet as the simmer's wind 

VVavin' the corn ; 
Sic is my Jeanie, oh, 
Stainless as winter snow, 
Given to the warld below 

Life to adorn. 

Joy to thee, bonnie lass, 

Gently an' braw, 
Thou, 'mang the fairest. 

Art fairer than a' ; 
Still niayst thou gladsome be, 
Ever from sorrow free. 
Blessings upon thine e'e 

Numberless fa'. 

Grief may bedim the while 

Joy's glowing flame ; 
Sorrow may steal the smile 

From its sweet hame ; ^ 

But the sweet flow'ret love. 
Native of heaven above. 
In the dark storm shall prove 

Ever the same. 



ERE THOU DIDST FORM. 

Ere thou didst form this teeming earth, 
Or gave these mighty mountains birth ; 
Ere mortal pressed this yielding sod; 
From everlasting thou art God ! 

Thousands of years, when passed away, 
Seem, in thy sight, one fleeting day ; 
Ages, where man may live and die, 
An hour to thy eternity ! 

Years roll on with a rolling stream. 
They fade like shadows in a dream ! 
Like grass, which springs at morning light, 
And withers ere the close of night I 



IC'^ MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

For thou art mighty in thine ire — 
Thy wrath consumes like flaming fire; 
And, spread before thy searching eye, 
Our sins in dreadful order lie. 
1837. [Unfinished.] 



A FRAGMENT. 

I SEE her seraph form, her flowing hair, 
Her brow and cheek so exquisitely fair ; 
Her smiling lips, her dark eye's radiant beam — 
A dream ? — this is not, cannot be a dream I 
They tell me 'tis some wild and phrcnsicd thought, 
Some glowing spark from fancy's aRar caught ; 
Some glowing spirir, fancied and unknown, 
Which reigns supreme -on Reason's vanquish'd throne. 
1837. 



FRAGMENT OF THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 

Thus thought I, wliile in pensive mood, 
Beneath a frowning cliff I stood. 
And mark'd the autumn sun decline 
Above the broad and heaving Rhine ! 
Oh, 't Vv'as a rich and gorgeous sight. 
But all too solemn to be bright. 
A saddening hue was o'er it cast, 
Which seem'd to tell of glories past, 
Of summer ripen'd to decay. 
Of ancient splendours past away. 
The parting monarch's dying glow 
Fell on the restless waves below, 
As if an angel's hand had dyed 
With hues from heaven the sparkling tide. 
The fleeting ray an instant beam'd. 
O'er hill, and dale, and rock it stream'd, 
Till the dark, time-defying clifl", 
Seem'd glowing, melting into life. 
And the broad scene, so sad and wild, 
Beneath its gentle influence smiled. 
As care lifts up its sorrowing eye. 
When hope has cast a sunbeam by ; 
Then swiftly fading, glided o'er, 
And left it lonely as before. 
The distant hills nf sombre blue. 
Tinged with that rich and varying hue, 
Now darker and more mingled grew. 
While nearer rose so wild and bold 
The rugged cliffs of Odenwald. 



POETICAL REMAINS. IflO 

The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray, 

RoU'd on its giant path, 
Lashing the rocks which barr'd its way, 
Now curhng graceful, as in play. 

Now roaring, as in wrath. 
The forests munnur'd, bow'd, and slept, 
But on the mighty river swept, 
As in impatient haste to gain 
The gentler waters of the Maine, 
Which flow'd along in stately pride, 
To mingle with its parent tide. 
But where the kindred waters meet, 

A rugged cliff there stood ; 
It rose above the eddying waves. 
With hanging rocks and yawning caves, 

The guardian of the flood; 
Fit haunt it sccm'd for giant forms 

Of wild, unearthly mould, 
The spirits of tlic winds and storms 

Their mystic rites to hold. 
And o'er its rugged brow was spread 

The forest moss and flower, 
And, 'mid a grove of solemn firs. 

Arose a ruin'd tower; 
The ivied walls and turrets gray 
Seem'd vainly struggling with decay, 
Still frowning o'er the restless tide, 
An emblem of unyielding pride. 
All, all was desolate and lone; — 
Beside its walls of crumbling stone 
A giant beech its arms had thrown. 

And ivy on its threshold grew; 
The shouts of mirth, the cries of strife, 
The varied sounds of bustling life. 

Its walls no longer knew ; 
The moaning winds rush'd fitful by. 
Blent with the owlet's dismal cry, 
And every sad and mournful blast 
Seem'd sadly wailing for the past ! 
Scarce could the wandering eye discern 
In that rude pile, so dark and stern, 
The remnants of its lofty vv'all, 
The area of its spacious hall. 
Or trace in masses rude and steep, 
What once was barbacan and keep. 
* * « * « 

"Roll back, thou tide of time !" and bring 

The faded visions of the past. 
And o'er the bard's enchanted string 

Thy veil of shadowy softness cast I 
Fancy, unfold thy swiftest wing I 

Thou dreary present, be no more I 
And I will tune my heart to sing 

In simple strains the days of yon; * 



yOO MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

These ruin'd walls again shall rise 

In all their ancient pride and power, 
Again the gorgeous banner float 

In triumpii from the stately tower I 
The moss, the thorn, the poisonous weed 
Shall vanish from the cheerful hearth, 
And the rude hall again resound 

With shouts of revelry and mirth ! 
Again beside that ruin'd gate 

The guard shall pace his weary round, 
Again the warder's midnight cry 

Within its massive turrets sound ; 
Again the bright convivial band 

Shall close around its joyous hearth, 
Again the vaulted halls return 

The shouts of revelry and mirth. 
Oh, I could tell of thrilling scenes 

Enacted in that "lone retreat; 
How its paved courts have echoed back 

The clanking tread of armed feet ; 
How savage cliiefs and knights of old, 
With forms and souls of iron mould, 
Have gather'd round this mountain hold, 

And form'd their councils here, 
Then rush'd upon the field below. 

With clashing sword and spear; 
And I could tell of princely dames, 

Of powerful lords and highborn peers. 
Who dream'd not that their honour'd names 

Could perish in the lapse of years. 
Or only live at times to aid 

The wandering minstrel's random song ; 
An old traditionary tale 

To float on memory's tide along ; 
And I could sing full many a strain 

Would call the life-blood from the cheek. 
What fancy's eye would shrink to see. 

And boldest tongue would fear to speak. 
But I will leave to nobler hands 

The framing of those mystic lavs. 
And only weave a simple tale 

Of later and of gentler days, 
When daring souls of daring deeds 

Gave place to peaceful knights and squires. 
And warlike gatherings on tlic field 

To feastings round their evening fires ; 
* \Vhen nought remain'd of olden times, 

Of strife and rivalry and blood, 
Save where some sterner barons held 

The remnants of an ancient feud. 

*T was morning, and the shades of night 
Roird backward from her brow of light. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 201 

As with majestic step she came. 
With dewy locks and eyes of flame, 
Her wreath of dancing- light to twine 
On the broad bosom of the Rhine. 
The scene beneath her spread was rife 
With sights and sounds of bustling life, 
Of joyful shouts, and glad halloo. 
And quick steps running to and fro. 
The castle walls, so dark and gray 
Tinged with the morning's cheerful ray, 
Seem'd revelling their gloom away. 
While from the court came, long and loud, 
The shouts of an assembled crowd, 
And on the mountain echoes borne, 
Peal'd out the huntsman's mellow horn. 
The clanking drawbridge fell across 
The sparkling waters of the foss. 
And servants hurried here and there 
• With bustling and important air ; 
Ofl from the forest would appear 
A group that bore the slaughter'd deer, 
And distant shouts would faintly tell 
As some new victim bleeding fell. 
Light skiffs were floating down the Rhino. 
Laden with casks of choicest wine. 
And oarsmen bore the precious freight 
For entrance to the postern gate. 
Ofl on the noisy tide along 
The minstrel pour'd his careless song, 
And all without was bustUng glee. 

* * * * » 

Within, the castle hall was graced 
With oaken tables, closely pla-ced. 
In preparation for a feast ; 
The ancient armour on the wall 
Was cleansed, and gilt, and burnish'd all; 
And helm, and casque, and corslet shone 
Like mirrors in the morning sun ; 
Oh, could the warlike forms which wore 
Those garments grim in days of yore, 
Come to their mountain home once more. 
How would they frown on scene so gay. 
And sigh for spirits past away ! 

Beside the hearthstone of his hall, 
The lord and master of them all. 
The owner of this proud domain. 
Stood, gazing on his menial train. 
His ample robes were rich and gay, 
His locks were slightly tinged with gray, 
His eye, beneath its darker shroud, 
Glanced, like a sunbeam from a cloud. 
17 



202 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Hope realized and love's warm glow 

Seem'd mingling o'er his furrow'd brow. 

And smiles of pleasure told in part 

The inward gladness of his heart. 

But ever and anon there stole 

Some softer feeling o'er his soul, 

And something like a tear would roll 

Unnoticed down his furrow'd cheek, — 

The child of thoughts he could not speak. 

Why rings the old castle with gladness this morn ? 

Why echoes the wood with the blithe hunter's horn ? 

Why slandeth their lord with his tiain at their side. 

And his eye beaming liglitly with gratified pride? 

This day it shall close o'er ins doubts and his fears, 

It shall witness the realized wishes of years. 

And his name shall be join'd, by the dearest of ties, 

To the only one worthy so brilliant a prize. 

Whose fathers of old were his fathers' allies. 

Why stealeth the teardrop so sad to his eye ? * 

Why bursts from his bosom the half-smother'd sigh ? 

Alas, for that father ! this day he must part 

From the pride of his houseliold, the joy of his heart; 

No more may he gaze on his beautiiul child, 

Whose step ever bounded, whose lip ever smil'd ; 

Who cast such a charm o'er his wild mountain life 

As the sunbeam may throw o'er the dark frownmg cliti^'. 

Now read ye the cause of the joyful array ? 

'Tis to welcome the lord of this festival day; 

For he comes with his glittering train by his side. 

To claim of her father his beautiful bride. 

****** 

***** 
****** 
18.37. 



ELEGY UPON LEO, AN OLD HOUSE-DOG. 

Thou poor old dog I too long affection's tongue 
Hath left thy merits and thy death unsung ; 
Too long the muse hath sought for tliemes of fame, 
And left untold thy weli-remember'd name ; 
And though that name hath lived on memory's leaf, 
Has touch'd for thee no thrilling chords of grief. 
Thou dear old dog ! thou joy of childish years ! 
Here let me shed for thee my heartfelt tears ; 
Here let me turn, from life's cold cores aside. 
And weep that thou, my faithful friend, hast died. 
Oh that no tears less pure miglit e'er be shed. 
Than those which mourn a loved companion dead! 
This is a world where faithful hearts are few, 
Where love too oft is vain, too oft untrue ; 
And when some cherish'd form to earth is borne. 
O'er fond affection's sevcr'd chain v.'e mcurn ; ' 



POE'ilGAL REMAINS. 203 

Thus I for thee, that one more friend hath gone, 
Who, though a dog, could love for love alone. 
Thou dear old friend ! on memory's starlit tide, 
Link'd with a sister's name thy name shall glide ; 
And when for her our tears flow fast and free, 
Our hearts shall breathe a ling'ring sigh for thee ; 
For thee, that sister's dearest, earliest pet, 
Whom even when dying she remember'd yet, 
Thou wast her playmate in each childish hour, 
When her light footsteps sprang from flower to flower; 
When not a cloud on life's fair surface lay. 
And joys alternate chased the hours away ; 
When her young heart beat high with infant glee, 
And fondly sought to share those joys with tiiee. 
And when youth's star arose on childhood's morn. 
And loftier thoughts on time's dark wing were borne; 
When hope look'd forward with exulting eye, 
And fear, the coward, still crouch'd trembling nigh ; 
When long had pass'd those hours of infant glee. 
Still, still she loved, and still would sport with thee. 
1837. [Unfinished.] 



MORNING. 

How calm, how beautiful a scene is this ! 
When nature, waking from her silent sleep. 
Bursts fortli in light, and harmony, and joy ! 
When earth, and sky, ana air are glowing all 
With gaiety and life, and pensive shades 
Of morning loveliness are cast around ! 
The purple clouds, so streak'd with crimson light. 
Bespeak the coming of majestic day; 
Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still, 
While ever and anon a golden beam 
Seems darting out its radiance! 
Herald of day! where is that mighty form 
Which clothes you all in splendour, and around 
Your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues 
Of heaven ? He cometh from his gorgeous couch. 
And gilds the bosom of the glowing east. 
1837. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AFTER SHE BEGAN TO FEAR THAT HER DISEASE WAS PAST REMEDY. 

I ONCE thought life was beautiful, 

I once thought life was fair. 
Nor deem'd that all its light could fade 

And leave but darkness there. 



204 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But now I know it could not last — 
The fairy dream has fled ! 

Though thirteen summers scarce have past 
Above this youthful head. 

Yes, life — 'twas all a dream — but now 

I see thee as thou art; 
I see how slight a thing can shade 

The sunshine of the heart. 

I see that all thy brightest hours, 
Unmark'd, iiave pass'd away ; 

And now I feel how sweet they were, 
I cannot bid them sta}'. 

In childish love or childish play 
My happiest hours were spent, 

While scarce my infant tongue could say 
What joy or pleasure meant. 

And now, when my young heart looks up, 
Life's gayest smiles to meet; 

Now, when in youth her brightest charms 
Would seem so doubly sweet ; 

Now fade the dreams which bound my soui 
As with the chains of truth ; 

Oh that those dreams had stay'd awhile, 
To vanish with my youth ! 

Oh ! once did hope look sweetly down, 
To check each rising sigh ; 

But disappointment's iron frown 
Has dimm'd her sparkling eye. 

And once I loved a brother too. 
Our youngest and our best, 

But death's unerring arrow sped, 
And laid him down to rest. 



But now I know those hours of peace 
Were never form'd to last ; 

That those fair days of guileless joy 
Are past — for ever past ! 



January, 1837 



POETICAL REMAINS. 205 



TO MY OLD HOME AT PLATTSBURG. 

That dear old home, where pass'd my childhood's years, 

Where fond affection wiped ray infant tears ; 

Where first I learn'd from whence my blessings came, 

And lisp'd, in faltering tones, a mother's name ; 

That cherish'd home, where memory fondly clings, 

Wliere eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 

Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray. 

And pass the hours in pleasing dreams away. 

Oh ! shall I ne'er beliold thy waves again, 

My native lake, my beautiful Champlain? 

Shall I no more above thy ripples bend 

In sweet communion with my childhood's friend ? 

Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave. 

The patriot's cradle and the warrior's grave ? 

Thy banks, illumined by the sun's last glow, 

l^hinc islets mirror'd in the waves below? 

Back, back, thou present — robed in shadows lie ! 

And ri':e the past before my raptured eye ! 

Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between, 

And memory's Jiand shall paint the glowing scene ; 

And I shall view my much-Ioved home again, 

My native village and my sweet Champlain, 

With former friends retrace my footsteps o'er, 

And muse delighted on thy verdant shore. 

Alas I the vision fades, the dream is past; 

Dissolved the spell by sportive fancy cast ! 

Why, wh.y should thus our brightest dreams depart, 

And scenes illusive cheat the sorrowing heart? 

Where'er through future life my footsteps roam, 

I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home ! 

With all my joys the thoughts of thee shall blend, 

And join'd with thee shall rise my childhood's friend ! 

1837. 



FAME. 

A FRAGMENT, 

Oil Fame ! thou trumpeter of dead men's deeds ! 
Thou idol of the heart, tiiou empty flatterer, 
That, like the heathen of the Nile, embalmest 
Those that thou design'st to love, and ever hiding 
Their vices and their follies with a veil 
Of soft concealment, doth exalt them high 
Above the common crowd, crown'd with thy might, 



200 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

That future years may copy and admire. 
Thou bright, alluring dream ! thou dazzling star* 
Where shall we find thee ! Thou art call'd 
Fickle and vain, and worthless of pursuit. 
Yet ***** 

1838. 



ON MY MOTHER'S FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. 

Yes, mother, fifty years have fled, 
With rapid footsteps o'er thy head ; 
Have pass'd with all their motley train, 
And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
How many smiles, and sighs, and tears. 
How many hopes, and doubts, and fears, 
Have vanish'd with that lapse of years! 
Though past, those hours of pain and grief 
Have left their trace on memory's leaf; 
Have stamp'd their footprints on the heart, 
In lines which never can depart ; 
Their influence on the mind must be 
As endless as eternity. 
Years, ages, to oblivion roll, 
Their memory forms the deathless soul ; 
They leave their impress as they go. 
And shape the mind for joy or woe ! 
Yes, mother, fifty years have past. 
And brought thee to their close at last. 
Oh that we all could gaze, like thee, 
Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
And 'mid its varied records find 
A heart at ease with all mankind, 
A firm and self-approving mind ! 
Grief, that had broken hearts less fine. 
Hath only served to strengthen thine ; 
Time, that doth chill tlie fancy's play, 
Hath kindled thine v;ith purer ray ; 
And stern disease, whose icy dart 
Hath povv-er to chill the shrinking heart, 
Has left thine warm with love and truth, 
As in the halcyon days of youth. 
Oh turn not from the meed of praise 
A daughter's willing justice pays; 
But greet with smiles of love again 
This tribute of a daughter's pen 
1838. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 207 



THE STORM HATH PASSED BY, 

The f*orm halh pass'd by, like an angry cloud 
Which sweeps o'er the brow of tlie azure heaven ; 

The sun and the earth to its svv^ay hath bow'd, 

And each radiant beam from the scene been driven 

All hail to the smile of the cloudless sky ! 

All hail to the sun as he rides on high ! 

All hail to the heavens' ethereal blue, 

And to nature, when deck'd in her own lovely hue ! 

It hath pass'd I the storm, like a giant form, 

Which summons the Vv'inds from their tempest cave ; 
Which opens a grave in each ocean wave. 

And wraps the world in its shroud of gloom. 

Oh ! welcome the smile of the gladden'd earth ! 
And welcome the voice of the wood-bird's mirth ! 
And welcome these varying hues which delight 
Like dawn at t!ic close of a wearisome night. 

The clouds have pass'd, with the shadows they cast, 
And hush'd is tJie sound of the wind-god's power, 

And his deep, wild blast, as the tempest pass'd, 
Which rang on the ear at the midnight hour. 

Oh ! welcome the soft, balmy zephyrs of spring ! 
And welcome the perfumes they silently bring I 
And the rosy -tinged cloudlets that gracefully glide 
O'er the fair brow of heaven in beauty and pride I 

It hath fled in its night, the dark spirit of night, 
Which cast such a shade o'er the light of the soul ; 

It hath fled and died, while the sunset beam 

From its surface triumphantly backward shall roll. 

Oh ! welcome the smiles of a gladden'd heart ! 
And welcome the joy which tiiose smiles impart ! 
And welcome the light of that sparkling eye 
Which tells that the storm in its dread hath pass'd by ! 
Ballston, 1838. 



EPITAPH ON A YOUNG ROBIN. 

Despite the curling lip, the smile of scorn, 
Thine early fate, oh ! hapless bird, we mourn ; 
Too soon withdrawn thy scanty store of breath, 
Too soon thy sprightly carols hush'd in death ! 
Here let us lay thee on thy mother's breast. 
Where no rude steps shall come, no cares molest, 
No cruel puss disturb thy silent rest. 
Saraiojra, 1838. 



208 iMISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

TO A MOONBEAM. 

Ah, whither art straying-, thou spirit of light, 
From thy liome in the boundless sky ? 

Why Jookest thou down from the empire of night. 
With that silent and sorrowful eye ? 

Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf, 
Where it fell t'rom its throne of pride ; 

But oh, what pictures of joy or grief, 
What scenes thou art viewing beside ! 

Thou art glancing down on the ocean waves, 
As they proudly heave and swell; 

Thou art piercing deep in its coral caves, 
Where the grcen-hair'd sea-nyniphs dwell! 

Thou art pouring thy beams on Italiu's shore. 
As though it were &vveetto be there; 

Thou art lighting the prince to his stately couch, 
And the monk to his midnight prayer. 

Thou art casting a fretwork of silver rays 

Over ruin, and palace, and tower ; 
Thou art gilding the temples of former days. 

In this holy and beautiful hour. 

Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade, 
Where mortal foot never hath trod ; 

Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, 
While the spirit hath gone to its God ! 

Thou art looking on those I love ! oh, vi-ake 
In their hearts some remembrance of me, 

And gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake 
Of the love I am breathing to thee. 

And perchance thou art casting thy mystic spell 

On the beautiful land of the blest, 
Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell. 

Where the weary have fied to their rest. 

Oh yes ! with that soft and ethereal beam, 
Thou hast look'd on the mansions of bliss, 

And some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world 
Hath breathed thee a message to this. 

'T is a mission of love, for no threatening shade 
Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues," 

And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, 
And while raising it, melts and subdues. 

And it whispers compassion ; for lo, on thy brow 

Is the sadness of angels enshrined; 
And a misty veil, ns of purified tears. 

Round thy beautiful f .'nn is eiirwined. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 209 

Hail, beam of the blessed ! my heart 

Has drunk deep of thy magical power, 
And eacii thought and each feeling seems bathed 

In the light of this exquisite hour! 
Sweet r.iy, I have proved thee so fair 

In this dark world of mourning and sin, 
May I hail thee more bright in tiiat pure region, where 

Nor sorrow nor death enter in. 

1838. 



EVENING. 

O'er the broad vault of heaven, so calmly bright, 

Twilight has gently drawn Jier veil of gray, 

And tinged with sombre hue the golden clouds, 

Fast fading into nothing: o'er the expanse 

Are swiftly stealing hues, which mildly blend 

And shadow o'er the pure transparence 

Of the azure heaven. Now is night array'd 

In all her solemn livery, and one by one 

Appear tiie sparkling gems uhich deck her robe. 

Each glittering star siiines brighter than its wont, 

As though some brilliant festival were held. 

Some joyful meeting in the courts above. 

Now mark yon group of amber-linted clouds, 

Shrouding the silvery form of Luna ; 

Their melting tints vanish away, and then 

The pale, cold moon springs up unshackled 

In her vast domain. Fair empress of the sky I 

Chaste queen ! thy hallow'd beauty can impart 

A soften'd radiance to each sombre cloud 

Of melancholy night, and, like a noble mind, 

Immersed in seas of darkness, tliou canst cast 

A portion of thy brilliant, meilow'd softness 

Around tiie deepening gloom. While viewing thee 

A sweet and pensive calm o'erspreads my soul. 

And, conjured by thy gentle, melting rays. 

Unerring memory hastens to my aid ; 

With her, I view again my own dear home. 

My native village, 'neath thy cloudless sky 

Serenely sleeping: 'tis as fair a picture 

Of unsullied peace as ever nature drew. 

Thy rays are dancing on the gentle river. 

In one unbroken stream of molten silver, 

And marking in the glassy Saranac 

Thy graceful outline, while the fairy isles 

Which on its bosom rest are slumbering 

In thy light, while the fair branches, bending 

O'er thy wave, turn their green leaves above, 

And bathe in one celestial flood of glory 



210 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

There, on its banks, I view the dear old home, 
That ever loved and blooming theatre. 
Where those I most revere have borne their parts, 
Amid its chang-ing- scenes. Before the threshold 
Tower tl)e lofty trees, and each high branch 
Is gently rocking in the summer breeze. 
And sending forth a low, sweet murmur. 
Like the soft breathings of a seraph's harp. 
Around its iiumble porch entwines the vine, 
While the sweetbriar and the blushing rose 
Now hang their heads in slumber, and the grass 
And fragrant clover scent the loaded air. 
Oh, my loved home, how gladly would I rove 
Amid thy soft retreats, and from decay 
Protect thy mouldering mansion, tend thy flowers, 
Prune the wild boughs, and there in solitude 
Listless remain, unknowing and unknown — 
Oh no, not quite alone,, for memory, 
And hope, and fond delight shall njingle there. 
1838. [Unfinished.] 



A POETICAL LETTER TO HENRIETTA. 

Once more, Henrietta, I open your sheet 

To glance at its contents so playful and sweet, 

To admire the flov/ of its easy strain. 

And pen you an answer in nonsense again. 

Perchance you may turn from my page away. 

And with scornful lip and expression say, 

"I think she might better have spent her time, 

Than in stringing such masses of jingling rhyme;" 

And perhaps I might, — I admit the blame, 

But like others, continue my fault the same. 

However, I think such a deacon as you 

May need the refreshment of nonsense too; 

That a creature so sober as you are, my friend, 

Her ear to the whisperings of folly may lend. 

Never mind — 'tis a fancy has cross'd my brain, 

Right or wrong, good or evil, I'll finish my strain. 

I wish you, ray dear Henrietta, could know 

How much I am grieved that I now cannot go, 

That our dreams of enjoyment have vanish'd in smoke 

And the castles we builded on vapour are broke ! 

But such are the chances of life, — it is fit 

That with stoical fortitude we should submit. 

Am I not philosophic? — A fortnight pass'd by 

With its fretting and grieving, its tear and its sigh ; 

Then — a month, peopled well with regretting by me, 

And — behold me submissive as mortal can be ! 

But jesting aside — 'tis a very sad thing 

To be torn from hope's anciior, where fondly we cling. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 2il 

1 too had been cherishing feelings as vain, 

Nursing hopes as dehisive, as sweet in my brain ; 

I Iiad waited in fancy your loved form to see, 

With a heart just as happy as happy could be; 

Had met you, embraced you, and welcomed you here. 

When lo 1 the brigiit dream dissolved in a tear ! 

Like tlie gay, gofgeous bubble, which floats for awhile. 

But departs ere you welcome its hues with a smile. 

You were wishing for wings — I enclose you a pair, 

Which I hope you will use with all possible care. 

For they were not prepared in a mortal mould. 

But were form'd by a fairy in purple and gold ! 

While riding one day by the green-wood side, 

This fairy in beautiful garments I spied ; 

Her mantle with dew-drops was spangled o'er — 

She had fairies behind her and fairies before. 

And many and gay were the jewels she wore ; 

But the wings whicli she raised to her delicate brow 

Were the purest of azure and white as the snow ! 

I bow'd at the foot of the fairy throne, 

And bcgg'd of her beautiful wings like her own. 

I sued tor the favour in friendship's name ; 

Slie assented, and smiling, admitted the claim. 

All sparkling and pure as the evening star, 

I gather'd the wings from the fairy's bower, 

And came home exulting, impatient to send 

The gift in its freshness and glow to my friend. 

Elated with pride I exposed them to view, 

But the touch of a mortal had clouded' their hue I 

So marvel no more at their dimness — believe 

That the very same wings are the wings you receive. 

Should my story too wild and too fanciful seem, 

Oh, call it no fiction, but name it — a dream. 

I am reading "Joscphus," a famous old Jew, 

Whose name is, I doubt not, familiar to you. 

He begins with the world, and proceeds to relate 

How tlie Jews from a nothing grew prosperous an(],great; 

How Jerusalem rtign^ as the Queen of the East, 

Till her sacred religion was scorn'd and oppress'd ; 

Then murder, and rapine, and famine ensued. 

Till the fields of Judea were streaming with biood. 

How I wish you were reading it with me, my friend • 

Your presence a charm to each sentence would lend. 

Your father's return, 3'ou remark, is the time 

To send you a budget of love and of rhyme ; 

The love be assured you will always possess. 

And you '11 have rhyme enough when you once have read this. 

So you see what that love has induced me to do. 

With it mayhe n.fear of your scolding tool — 

It is evening — the close of a beautiful day, 
And the last rays of sunset are fading away ; 



$m MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Till nothing remains but a faint rosy hue, 
Just mingling in with a fainter blue. 
The shadows of twilight arc closing around, 
Not a murmur is heard but the cricket's sound, 
And pensive thoughts o'er my heart-strings creep 
As the " unvoiced" breezes around me sweep. 
'Tis a tranquil hour, and I lazily lie, 
Gazing up at my ease on the delicate sky, 

^ With the sombre light on my dim page playing, 
And my pen through its numberless labyrinths straying. 
How gentle the spell of this exquisite hour I 
How soothing, how sweet its mysterious power ! 
It steals o'er my heart, like a breeze o'er the lake, 
Each half-buried accent of music to wake. 
The kitten beside me hath fled from its play. 
And close in my bosom is nestling away ; 
And the trembling leaf, and the bending flower, 
And the insect millions acknowledge its power. 
HoviT the fancy will fly from the present, and roam 
O'er each corner of earth 'neath heaven's high dome ! 
Perchance, like myself, you may cloud-gazing be; 
Perchance, my sweet friend, you are thinking of me, 
And this scene, like a beautiful image of rest, 
Has awakened the same delicate chords in your breast ; 
And perchance — how provoking! — that twinkling lamp-night 
Hath dissolved with its brilliance my dreams of delight. 
Hath deepen'd to blackness the mantle of gra}', 
And chased all my beautiful visions away. 
So it is — tliey have fled — and again I descend 
To converse upon cvery-day themes with my friend ; 
But the end of my paper convinces me still 
That I soon must release thee, my trusty goosequill ; 
Though m.y breast and iny head are yet aching to write, 
I must bid ygu, dear Hetty, a loving good night. 
If your ears are not tired of tlie jingling of rhyme 
I will finish my musical letter next time ; 
In the meanwhile, believe me sincerely to be 
Your affectionate scribbler, * 

I\Iargaret M. D. 

Ballston, 1838, 



LINES 

ON SEEING SOME FRAGMENTS FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 

Have these gray relics, crumbling into dust. 
Once rested 'neath Italia's burning sky ? 

Has this cold remnant of what once was stone 
Reflected back her warm cerulean dye ? 

Have these white fragments rested o'er the sod 
Hallow'd by virgil's ever-sacred clay ? 

And have they mingled with the grass-grown mound 
Which o'er the classic hero's bosom lay ? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 213 

Perhaps the crumbling- stones beside me now 
Fell froin the mouldering- marble at his head — 

The icy tomb which hides his noble brow, 
For ever ha How 'd by the mighty dead. 

In fancy o'er Ttalia's fields I roam, 

In fancy view the poet's lowly grave, 
Round which, as I in silent sorrow bend, 

The flowering- myrtle and the cypress wave. 

1838. [Unfinished.] 



A SHORT SKETCH 

OF THF MOST IMPORTANT IDEAS CONTAINED IN COUSIn's " INTRODUCTION 
TO THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY." 

According to Cousin, there are three elements of consciousness, 
three first ideas of the infinite, the finite and their relations succeeding 
each other in the above order. He believes that as the history of an in- 
dividual such is the history of mankind in general ; that as there are three 
fundamental ideas there must be three epochs of the world to develope 
those ideas. As the first idea is that of the infinite, the first age of the 
world will express this idea in its laws, its arts, its religion, and its philo- 
sophy : this will predominate. When fully developed, the idea of the 
finite will succeed ; action, variety, and liberty will take the place of 
slavery and immobility ; man will begin to find himself. All the ele- 
ments of his nature will be brought into action, although still subjected 
to the predominating principle. When this is exhausted, in its turn the 
idea of the relations between the finite and the infinite will come; man 
will join these two great principles ; every element will assume its proper 
station without asserting undue authority over the others ; man will at 
once generalize and particularize ; and as this is the highest develope- 
ment of the ideas of humanity, this epoch will be the last. After giving 
this expansive view of man and his destination, he proceeds to show that 
different climates and countries are destined for the development of dif- 
ferent ideas ; that the idea of the infinite must necessarily prevail in a 
large continent surrounded by vast seas, traversed by inaccessible moun- 
tains, and divided by immense deserts, with a burning and enervating 
climate, where every thing lends to and expresses the idea of the vast, 
(he absolute, the infinite: such a country is Asia. On the contrary, the 
idea of the finite will occupy a smaller country, intersected by rivers 
affording every fiicility of inland communication and commerce, surround- 
ed by small seas, inviting the inhabitants to intercourse with neighbouring 
nations, and filled with beautiful and diversified scenery, all bearing the 
impress of the finite, urging to action and enterprise, and devoid of that 
solemn and sombre unity of expression v.hich prevailed in its parent 
epoch : such a country is Greece. 7'hat position of the world destined 
for the developcment of tlie last and most perfect efioch, must unite the 
two great external features of the former coimtries, as it is to assist in 
expressing the two great ideas in perfect unison with each other. It must 
combine the sublime with the beautiful, every advantage of internal com- 
merce and high civilization with a manifest appearance of magnitude and 
duration ; it must possess a perfect and minute individuality with a great 
and striking general character ; a vast continent surrounded with vast 
oceans, conta'iiinir mighty rivers and inland seas, broad prairies, and long 



214 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

ranges of mountains, together with fertile valleys and streams, and all 
the minor qualities of a rich and magnificent country, containing facilities 
for the minulest internal improvements, guided and governed by a lofty 
and abstract spirit of generalization — thus uniting the relative and the ab- 
solute, the finite and the infinite ! such a country is America. He then 
proceeds to speak of war, its causes, and its effects. He considers it not 
only beneficial but necessary. War is a combat of ideas. Underneath 
the great and prominent idea of an epoch there exist minor elements ia 
a nation, as in an individual : one people expresses one element, one 
idea ; another seizes upon and developes a second : these truths elevate 
themselves against each other and com.bat — hence war. When one of 
these ideas is exhausted, it is opposed and superseded by a newer and a 
better one — hence conquest. One idea and one nation make room for 
another idea and another nation ; one epoch is destroyed, and another 
arises. Mark the benefits of war : had it never existed there had been 
but one era of the world, and humanity could never have progressed. 
He then proceeds to justify conquests. He considers that the event 
proves the right ; that when a newer and nobler spirit rises against an 
exhausted one, that spirit must conquer, and ought to conquer. He does 
not believe in absolute error; he believes every error is a part of truth, 
and raised to an undeserved superiority among the elements of humanity. 
1838. [Unfinished.] 



BRIEF NOTES FROM COUSIN'S PHILOSOPHY, 

MADE DURING THE WINTE.1 OF 1838. 

His first position is this: as soon as man receives consciousness he is 
surrounded by objects in a world hostile to himself, but by exertion and 
developement of his power, he has conquered and modified matter, and 
has, as it were, impressed with his image and rendered it subservient to 
his will. The first man who overcame any obstacles in the way of his 
desires created industry, and the first who measured the slightest space 
around him or united the objects before him, introduced the science of 
mathematics. All these, mathematics, physics, and political economy, 
have one object, utility or the useful; but there are other relations in 
which men stand to each other, besides those of Imrtful or useful, the 
just and the U7ijust. Upon the idea of the useful, man altered the ex- 
ternal appearance of nature ; upon the idea of justice he created a new 
society, maintaining their own rights, and respecting the rights of others. 
But man goes further : besides the hurtful or the useful, the just or the 
unjust, he has inherent in his nature the idea of the beautiful and its 
opposite. Impressed with this idea, man seizes, developes, and purifies 
it in his thought, until he finds that thought superior to the object which 
presented it. Every thing that is beautilul in nature is also imperfect, 
and fades when compared wnth the idea it avv-akens. Thus, man not 
only reforms nature and society by industry and the laws of justice, but 
also remodels tho^e ohj?cts which present to him the idea of beauty, and 
renders thctn more beauiifnl than ever. But man is not yet satisfied— he 
looks beyond the world of industry and arts, and coticeives God. The 
idea of God as separate from the world, but scarcely himself in it. is 
natural r dig 1071 ; hm he does riOt rest there; he creates another world, 
in which he perceives nothing but its relation to God, the world of * * 
he expands and elevates the sentiment of rehgion. Philosophy succeeds. 
Philosophy is the developement of thought ; it may be good or bad, but 
in itself it is demanded by the mind as much sas religion, the sciences, 
&LC. Cousin proves this position by a rapid examination of the wants 
of man ****4=*** 



POETICAL REMAINS. 215 



LENORE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Why should I sing ? Tlie scenes which roused 
The bards of old, arouse no more ; 

The reig-n of poesy halh pass'd, 

And ail her glowing dreams are o'er ! 

Why should I sing? A thousand harps 
Have touch'd the self-same chords before 

Of love, and hate, and lofty pride. 
And fields of battle batiied in gore ! 

Why should I seek the burning fount 

From whence tJieir glowing fancies sprung ? 

My feeble muse can only sing 

What other, nobler bards have sung . 

Thus did I breathe my sad complaint, 

As, bending o'er my silent lyre, 
I sigh'd for some romantic theme 

Its slumbering music to inspire. 

Scarce had I spoke, when o'er my soul 

A low reproving whisper came; 
My heart instinctive shrank with awe. 

And conscience tinged rny cheek with shame, 

"Down v/ith thy vain repining thoughts, 
Nor dare to breatne those thoughts again, 

Or endless sleep shall bind thy lyre, 
And scorn repel thy bursting strain I 

" What though a thousand bards have sung 
The charms of earth, of air, or sky ! 

A thousand minstrels, old and young, 
Pour'd fortli their varied melody 1 

" What though, inspired, they stoop'd to drink 
At Fancy's fountain o'er and o'er! 

Say, feeble warbler, do:-t thou think 
The glowing streamlet flows no more? 

" Because a nobler hand has cull'd 

The loveliest of our earthly flowers, 
Dost thou believe that all of bloom 
Hath fled those bright, poetic bowers . 

" Know then, that long as earth shall roll, 

Revolving 'neath yon azure sky. 
Music shall charm each purer soul, 

And Fancy's fount shall never dry ! 



216 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" Long- as the rolling- seasons change, 

And nature holds her empire here ; 
Long- as the human eye can range 

O'er yon pure heaven's expanded sphere; 
"Long- as the ocean's broad expanse 

Lies spread beneath yon broader sky ; 
Long as the playful moonbeams dance, 

Like fairy forms, on billows high ; 
"So long, unbound by mortal chain, 

Shall genius spread her soaring wing 
So long the pure poetic fount, 

Uncheck'd, unfetter'd, on shall spring. 

" Thou say'st the days of song have past, 
The glowing days of wild romance, 

When war pour'd out his clarion blast. 
And valour bovv'd at beauty's glance ! 

" When every hour that onward sped, 
Was fraught with some bewildering tale , 

When superstition's shadowy hand 
O'er trembling nations cast her veili 

" Thou say'st that life's unvaried stream 
In peaceful ripples wears away; 

And years produce no fitting theme 
To rouse tiie poet's slumbering lay. 

" Not so, while yet the hand of God 

Each year adorns his teeming earth ; 
Wjjile dew-drops deck the verdant sod, 

And birds, and bees, and flowers have birth' 
" While every day unfolds anew 

Some charm to meet the searching eye ; 
While buds of every varying hue 

Are bursting 'neath a summer sky. 

"'Tis true that war's unsparing hand 
Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore; 

That hate hath quench'd his burning brand, 
And tyrant princes reign no more. 

" But dost thou think that scenes like these 

Form all the poetry of life ? 
Would thy untutor'd muse deliglit 

In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife? 

" No — there are boundless fields of thought. 
Where roving spirits never soar'd ; 

Which wildest fancy never sought, 
Or boldest intellect explored I 

" Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre, 
But tune its chords to nature's praise ; 

At every turn tliine eye shall meet 
Fit t hemps to forrii a poet's lays. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 217 

" Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles 

In all her loveliest scenes to view ; 
Nor deem, though others there have knelt, 

'J'hou may'st not weave tliy garland too ;" 
It paused — I felt how true the words, 

How sweet the comfort they convey'd ; 
I chased my mourning thoughts away — 

I heard — I trusted — I obey'd. 

DEDICATION. 
TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

Oh thou, so early lost, so long deplored! 

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
And while I toucii this hallow'd harp of tliine. 

Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear! 
For thee I pour this unaffected lay. 

To thee these simple numbers all belong; 
For tiiough thine earthly form hath pass'd away, • 

Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 
Then fake this feeble tribute I 'tis thine own — 

Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er, 
Arouse to harmony each buried tone, 

And bid its vvaken'd music sleep no more ! 
Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 

Hung o'er tiiy grave in death's unbroken rest 
But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 

One answering echo lingcr'd in my breast. 
Oh thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near. 

Accept these lines, unworthy thougli they be. 
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, 

By thee insj)ired, and dedicate to thee! 

CANTO FIRST. 

'TwAS nightfall on the Rhine ! the day 
In pensive glory stole away. 
Flinging his last and brightest glow 
Full on the restless waves belov.'. 
As if an angel's hand had dyed 
With hues from heaven the sparkling tide 
The fleeting ray an instant beam'd, — 
O'er hill and vale and rock it stream'd, 
Till the dark, time-defying cliff, 
Seem'd glowing, melting into life — 
Then swiftly fading, glided o'er. 
And left it lonelier than berore. 
The distant hills of sombre blue. 
Tinged with that rich and varying hue, 
Now darker and more mingled grew ; 
The Rhine, enrobed in shadows grav, 
18* 



818 MISS MARGAivET DAVIDSON. 

Roll'd on its g;iant path. 
Lashing- the rocks which barr'd its way, 
Now curling graceful, as in play, 

Now roaring as in wrath ! 
Wliile trembling in the tinted west, 
The fair moon rear'd her silver crest, 
And fleecy clouds, as snow-wreaths pale, 
Twined on lier brow their g-raceful veil ; 
And one by one, with tiny flame, 
Night's heavenly tapers softly came. 
And toward their mistress trembling stole, 
Like pleasing memories o'er the soul. 
And shade by shade her brilliance grew. 
As past away the sunset hue, 
Till o'er the heaving Rhine she stood, 
Bathing in light its sleeping flood ; 
Pouring her full and melting ray 
Where rock and hill and forest lay. 
And where, in clust'ring trees embower'd. 
An ancient castle proudly tower'd : 
O'er the gray walls her glances play'd. 
O'er drawbridge, moat, and tower they strayM, 
As striving with that holy light 
To pierce the works of earthly miglit, 
And cast one heavenly beam witliin 
The abode of human toil and sin. 
Can sin and sorrow and despair 
Be frowning 'neath a sky so fair ? 
Can nature sleep Vv'hile tempests roll 
Impetuous o'er the tortured soul? 
Mark yonder taper, dimly beaming. 
From the lone turret faintly streaming 
Casting athwart the brow of night 
Its wavering and uncertain light ! 
Beside that torch sit guilt and care 
And dark remorse, and coward fear ; 
And fever'd thought is borrowing there 
The haggard visage of despair! 
There, with his aged fingers prest 
In clasp convulsive to his breast, 
Bows, as with secret guilt and pain, 
The master of this broad domain. 
His ample robes around him stray, 
His locks are deeply tinged with gray, 
And his dark, low'ring brow is fraught 
With marks of avarice and thought. 
At every sound wliich meets his ear. 
He starts instinctive as with fear, 
And his keen eye roams here and there 
With anxious and expectant air. 
Kisseem'd a mind of timid mould, 
Sway'd by some spirit, fierce and bold, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 219 

Which lean'd to virtue, but could yield 

When vice to avarice appeal'd — 

Which gazed on crime with shrinking eye, 

But was too cowardly to ily. 

He started — heard, with troubled air 

A tread upon the turret stair; 

Wiped from his brow the gathering dew, 

And closer still his mantle drew, 

When wide the massive portal flew ! 

As wondering at this entrance rude. 

The aged host in silence stood ; 

While with a stern unchanging look, 

The stranger doiTd his ample cloak, 

Unloosed his bonnet's clasping band, 

And toward the baron strctch'd his hand. 

His host the friendly gesture saw. 

But shrank in hatred or in awe — 

Then starting, as with eager haste. 

The proiTer'd hand he warmly prest, 

And smiled a welcome to his guest. 

The latter mark'd, with flashing glance, 

That shrinking fear, this mean pretence 

And then resumed the smile of scorn 

His curHng lip had lately worn. 

Uninjured by the frosts of time, 

He seern'd advanced in manhood's prime ; 

His form was tall, his mien erect. 

His locks, though matted by neglect, 

Curl'd closely round his swarthy brov/ 

While his dark orbits flashed below. 

Nature, with fingers firm and bold, 

Had made a form of finest mould, 

And painted on liis childish face 

The outline of each manly grace; 

But pride and art, those imps of sin, 

Had crept the empty shrine within ; 

Had taught his heart each serpent wile. 

And lent his lip its fiendish smile. 

His brow was knit with thought and care, 

And dark design was scowling there; 

His glance inspired both hate and fear — 

Now withering with its biting sneer, 

Now flashing like the mid-day sun. 

Which scorches all it looks upon. 

Boldness and artifice combined 

To form the dark, perverted mind. 

Within that goodly frame ensiirined ; 

And he, v^hose steps in early youth 

Some kindly hand had led to truth, 

Witli active brain, and heart that burn'd, 

From that unpointed pathway turn'd, 

Unwarn'd, unguided, plunged v/ithin 

The blackening gulf of shame and sin. 



220 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

On his dark face the baron's eye 

Gazed anxious and inquiringly, 

And when he mark'd his silent guest 

Draw forth a casket from the vest 

Which iblded loosely on his breast, 

With half concoal'd, convulsive gasp, 

He stretc.h'd his eager hand to clasp 

The sparkling treasure in his grasp. 

But with a stnile, more full than speech, 

The stranger drew it from his reach ; 

On the rode bench the casket laid. 

Beside his dagger's glittering blade; 

Drew near his host, who quaked wnth dread, 

And thus, in low, stern accents said : 

" Thou deemest right — that gem doth hold 

A something dearer far than gold ; 

To thee, more precious than thy life. 

To me, tfie cause of toil and strife ! 

'T is that, which in another's hands, 

Would tear thee from these goodly lands. 

Send thee and thy fair daughter forth 

From all tiiou thinkest life is worth. 

From titles, honours, lands, and hall, 

And lo young Erstein yield them all. 

Which in thine own will banish fear, 

And make thee lord and master here. 

Unchallenged by the rightful heir : 

(Then in a low, impressive lone,) 

But hold, — that prize is still mine own /" 

"Villain !"— " Nay, curb that wrath of thine- 

Hast thou fl^rgot one vvord of mine 

Could hurl tlsce from thy high estate. 

To beggar'd infamy and hate ? 

Could I not rend the shrouding veil. 

And tell the wondering world the tale ; 

How when thy kinsman died in Spain, 

Thou seized upon his fair domain. 

His titles, and his wealth ; despite 

His heir, the youthful Erstein's right? 

Could I not tell, how many a year. 

With artful wile and cov^ard fear. 

Thou sought'st vv'ith vain and mean pretence 

These proofs of his inheritance. 

That thou might'st thus for aye destroy 

The claims of this romantic boy ? 

Think'st thou I v-^ill this pov/er forego, 

Another's lands on thee bestow, 

The rightful heir for thee despoil. 

And gain but hatred, fear and toil ? 

" Speak not, old man I By heaven I I swear, 

Yon casket and its contents there 

Were not more safe from grasp of tfiine. 

Though buried in the heaving Rhine, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 221 

If thou grant not, unquestion'd, free, 
The g'uerdon I shall claim of thee !" 
Ask aught," tlie baron faltering cried ; 
" Leave me my gold ! take aught beside I" 
The stranger knit his swarthy brow, 
" Old dotard ! yes, thy gold and thou ! 
Swear by the God wiiom thou dost fear, 
Swear by that gold thou dost revere, 
My suit is granted I" and his eye 
Flash'd on the baron fearfully. 
"Herman, I swear!" he mutter'd low. 
And the blood left his cheek and brow ; 
Scarce said he, ere his fearful guest 
The casket's jewell'd lock had press'd. 
And from its case of richest mould, 
Drawn forth a written parchment fold, 
With eager hands, and sparkling eyes, 
The aged baron seized the prize. 
Tore it in haste, and opening wide 
The vine-wreath'd lattice at his side, 
With fix'd, exulting gaze, consign'd 
Its fragments to tlie midnight wind. 

That scene and act, that form and face, 
A painter's hand had loved to trace : 
The moon, as if the scene to shroud. 
Had sought the bosom of a cloud; 
The murmuring waves, the rustling trees, 
The fitful sighing of the breeze. 
And the hoarse owlet's distant tone. 
Blent in one soft and wailing moan, 
Disturb'd that midnight calm alone. 

His brow with burning drops bedew'd, 

The old man at his lattice stood. 

And scann'd with sparkling, lingering eye, 

Each fragment as it floated by ; 

And Herman mark'd his host the while 

With sneering and contemptuous smile : 

At length, with mien o^' joyous pride, 

The baron hasten'd to his side. 

And thus in tones of triumph cried : 

" Now have they perish'd ! all tliat might 

Prove to the world young Erstein's right! 

Hi? claim Is as it ne'er had been. 

And these broad lands arc mine again ! 

When first by youthful pride impell'd, 

This princely barony I held, 

I knew my kinsman lived, and knew 

These fatal proofs existed too ; 

But all my cunning found not where. 

Thus lived I years, in doubt and care. 

In trembling terror, lest my name 

Som-e evil chance should brand with shame J 



222 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Or more, lest all my hoarded gold 
Should vanish from my loosen ing- hold. 
" Blest be the day, g^ood Herman, when 
Thou earnest from thy mountain den, 
And said that thou thyself had known 
The secret which I deem'd mine own; 
Despair and ang-uish made me dumb ; 
I thought the fatal hour had come. 
O'erwhelm'd in grief I little knew 
Thy heart, so noble and so true, 
Nor thought the object of my fears, 
Could crown the fruitless search of years ? 
But knows young Erstein of his claim 
To Arnheim's barony and name ? 
Will he behold his goodly lands 
Seized by a stranger's trembling hands?" 

*' He knows it not; romantic, gay. 
To distant lands he roam'd away, 
And sought adventure and renown 
In nobler countries than his own. 
One month return'd from foreign war, 
He lives within his lonely tower; 
Scouring the forest far and near. 
And hunting down the antler'd deer ; 
But should he search the written past. 
And learn this fatal truth at last. 
His heart and arm are strong to fight 
In brave defending of his right." 

*' Ay, should he so, good Herman I" — Now 
A livid paleness robed his brow • 
But quick returning crimson spread. 
While thus his dark accomplice said : 
And canst thou not the path descry ? 
Why then, good baron, he must die ; 
This barrier in thy way / hate. 
And dark and wild shall be his fate. 
He scorn'd me, and I vow'd to seal 
My vengeance on tliis faitliful steel, 
And happy shall that moment be 
Which bows his lofty crest to me. 
But night wears on — I must away — 
Thou hast the casket's price to pay." 

The old man raised his troubled eye. 

As longing, fearing to reply. 

Then slowly gasp'd, with effort bold, 

"Ay, ay, what wouldst thou, land or gold ?" 

"Thou hast a beauteous daughter — she 

The guerdon of my toil must be ! 

Her hand must be unite with mine 

Before another sun decline 

On the broad bosom of the Rhine !" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 223 

With smother'd shriek and heaving breast 

The father knelt before his guest. 

" My child ! niy own Lenore ! thy hridel — 

Ask aught, ask every thing beside. 

The dews which wet the summer flower 

Are not more sinless than Lenore! 

Through years of guilt and care, my child 

Checr'd my soul's darkness till it smiled 1 

Now that Hjy locks are turned to gray 

Thou canst not tear that child away I — 

Her gentle purity hath been 

A star on life's beclouded scene. 

Music her voice, and heaven her eye, — 

Oh leave her, leave her, or I die I" 

With kindling glances Herman heard 

Each smother'd groan, each anguish'd word, 

And then replied in tones of scorn, 

"Up from thy knees! hast thou not sworn 

To grant my suit ? dost thou forget 

Thine all is in my clutches yet? 

I swear that she, and only she. 

Shall buy my bond of secresy !" 

•' Forget ! why can I not forget ? — 

Would we had never, never met! 

Leave me, for God's sake, leave me now ! — 

Oh my torn heart, my burning brow !" 

"Say thou wilt make thy daughter mine 

Before another sun decline, 

And I depart to come no more, 

Until that joyous bridal hour !" 

" Wretcii I fiend ! I will !" — The accents hung 

As loth to leave his faltering tongue; 

But ere had ceased that lingering tone, 

He turn'd and found himself alone. 

The taper's waving glimmer fell 

On the rude pavement of the cell. 

Where with his trembling fingers prest 

Upon his heaving, labouring breast, 

With air distracted, yet subdued, 

That wretched, erring parent stood. 

His eye was fix'd, and bent his ear, 

His guest's retiring steps to hear, 

Though like a quick and piercing dart, 

Each sent a quivering through his heart; 

When first that wild vibration ceased, 

The floor with rapid steps he paced ; 

And thoughts of agonizing pain 

Flitted like wild-fire through his brain. 

How should he give his child, his pride, 
To be a branded outlaw's bride ? 
How could her purity have part 
In Herman's cold, per\erud heart? — 



224 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Then rush'd back memories of youth, 

When earth was heaven, and man was trutli^, 

And her he loved, too pure for life, 

Too gentle for its toil and strife, 

She, who, unheeding slander's tongue, 

Still to her lord had fondly clung — 

Her, he had dared to scorn, deride. 

Her, who had sufFer'd, wept, and died I 

While o'er his mind these memories stole, 

He groan'd in agony of soul, 

" My child I no — never shalt thou be 

Heir to thy mother's misery I 

These aged eyes had rather weep 

O'er thy dark bed of endless sleep." 

Then o'er these better feelings came 

The ghosts of penury and shame ; 

He saw his gold another's prey. 

His lands, his titles torn away. 

Himself the theme of public scorn. 

His daughter friendless and forlorn, 

And then he whisper'd, " I have sworn i" 

But why this picture longer view ? 

Or why this painful theme pursue ? 

Oh I rather let us weep that he 

Who niight allied to angels be 

Will sully thus the spark divine, 

Imprison'd in its earthly shrine, 

And in compassion drop the veil 

O'er this sad portion of our tale. 

Now let us seek the lonely bower 

Where at this silent midnight hour. 

So sweetly sleeps the fair Lenore. 

A silver lamp, with flickering beam, 

Now dies, now starts with sudden gleam, 

Diflusing o'er the vaulted room 

Or wavering light, or partial gloom 

Near, on the oaken table, lie 

Her crucifix and rosary. 

And the small lute, whose golden string 

Hath echoed to her evening hymn. 

Her head is resting on her hand. 

Her hair, escaping from its band. 

Falls in rich masses on her neck. 

Her fair white brow, and flushing cheek i 

The long, dark lashes of her eye 

On tlieir fair pillow trembling lie. 

Her lips half parr, and you can trace 

A smile of pleasure on her face. 

She dreams — her soul hath pass'd away. 

Far from its lovely shrine of clay, 

Scenes of enjoyment to explore, 

Where waking fancies dare not soar. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 225 

She dreams — what soft, subduing thought 

Hath her unfetter'd spirit caught ? 

She whispers " Erstcin I" — ah I sweet one, 

Thou iinow'st not what this hour hath done ! 

"What cloud hath dimm'd thy fortune's star. 

And his thou lovest dearer far ! 

Dream on ! for thou wilt wake to weep, 

When morn dispels that balmy sleep, 

And in thy pilgrimage of pain 

Thou ne'er may'st dream so sweet again. 

Hark ! 'tis the night-breeze, as it twines 

Round the tail hilticc, wreath'd uuth vines. 

Again ! arouse tijcc, sweet Lenorc, 

A slej) is in the corridor. 

It pass'd along th.e echoing floor, 

And paused beside the maiden's door, 

And from beneath, a brilliant stream 

Of wavering light was seen to gleam. 

The door unclosed — the torch's fire 

Reveal'd its bearer — 't was her sire ! 

With trembling hand he strove to shade 

The beams which througli the apartment strayM, 

And o'er the placid sleeper play'd ; 

Then to her side he softly came, 

And moved the shadow I'rom its fiame. 

She woke — h.er night-robe closer drew, 
A hurried glance around her threw; 
Then, with a troubled, anxious gaze. 
She scann'd each feature of his face. 
" Why come at midnight to thy child. 
With cheek so pale, and eye so wild ?" 
" My daughter, rise I — thou necd'st not fear, 
But /must speak, and thou must hear." 

Then gave he to her listening ears 
A tale of doubts and cares and fears; 
Of future wretchedness and pain, 
Of threaten'd penury and disdain, 
An exile from their native hearth. 
And how a generous Iriend stepp'd forth, 
Turn'd from their heads this direful fate, 
And freely ransom'd his estate. 

And how, in an unguarded hour, 
When gratitude alone had power. 
He swore by every sacred name 
To grant whatever he might claim; 
How, while he listen'd in despair. 
Did Herman claim his daughter fair; 
And ho was bound, by all that 's dear, 
That solemn promise to revere; 
And then, with tears and sighs he said, 
" If thou dost love this aged head, 
10 



228 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Preserve my wealth, my peace, my life, 

And be my kind preserver's wife." 

With cheeks and brov/ as snow-wreath pale 

His daughter heard this fearful tale. 

So suddenly that dread blov»? came, 

It struck like palsy on her frame. 

Through her veins crept an icy chill, 

As if her very heart stood still, 

And nought was heard the calm to break, 

When her old sire had ceased to speak ; 

But though her fix'd and glaring eye 

No outward object could descry, 

Before her spirit's glance, a throng 

Of vivid pictures swept along. 

She saw the sliadcd bovv'cr, the grove 

Where first young Erstcin " whisper'd love;" 

She saw his dark, reproachful eye 

Upraised to h.ers in agony ; 

And then a sterner vision came 

Of him her fancy dared not name. 

She saw his tall and muiiled form. 

She saw his witlicring smile of scorn, 

She saw — " Lenore !'' — her father spoke — 

The spell which bound her tongue was broke. 

She knelt his bending form beside. 

And thus in faltering accents cried : 

" My father! canst thou doom so sore 

A trial to thine own Lenore ? 

Is there no spot of refuge still ? 

Is poverty so great an ill ? 

To pomp and wealth thy heart is cold — 

Yield up to liim thy hoarded gold ! 

What carest thou f()r state or pride, 

If / am ever by thy side ? 

Give him thine all, and let us go 

Far from this darkest, deadliest foe I 

Thou siialt have peace, and I will be 

A more than coinforter to tiicel" 

" My child, I cannot change thy lot — 

Thou speakest of thou know'st not what ! 

How wouldst thou hear thy father's name, 

Branded with infamy and shame?" 

To his dark mantle she had clung, 

Now to her feet she sv.'iftly sprung I 

A tear had trembled in lier eye, 

But nov/ she dash'd it firmly by ; 

Her cheek had blanch'd with fear before, 

But now that paleness was no more ! 

With form erect, and glance of fire, 

She gazed upon her cowering sire, 

As though her piercing eye could see 

His heart's remotest sccresy. 



POETICAL REMAINS. •^^-7 

A dark and dread suspicion stole 

Like burning- lava o'er her soul. 

" Why is that fear upon his face ? 

Why should my father dread disgrace? 

He, I had thoutrht, no shame could dim, 

Why, why should shame descend on him ? 

What is this mystery, and how 

Can I avert this dreaded blov/ ? 

I know not, and because mine eye 

May not the source of ill descry. 

Shall I the power of good forego. 

And plunge him into deeper woe ?" 

Her pure affection answer'd " No I" 

If he were noble, as she dcem'd. 

The path of right most open secm'd, 

To chase each shadow from his eyes, 

E'en at this fearful sacrifice ; 

If he deserved the meed of shame, 

Was not that pathway still the same? 

A moment's calm was in her brain. 

She dared not pause for thought again, 

But springing to her father's side. 

She whispe.'-'d, " I will be his bride I" 

She heeded not his fond caressing, 

She heeded not his parting blessing — 

The die was east ! — and there she bent, 

Fix'd as a marble monument. 

Nought but her quick and gasping breath 

Revealing there was life beneath. 

Her father left that fatal spot- 
She was alone, yet knew it not, 

Till liis quick footstep as it pass'd, 

Dissolved the fearful charm at last. 

And sent a wild and burning glow 

Through the full arteries of her brow ; 

Then came affliction's sweet relief. 

Weeping, soft child of stern-eyed grief, 

That lulls the passions into rest, 

And soothes the mourner's tortured breast. 

When the first agony was past 

Her gushing tears flow'd long and fast, 

And with thanksgiving fervent, deep. 

She own'd the privilege to weep. 

Alas ! frail flower 1 her life had been 

One bright, unchanging, tranquil scene ; 

Loving and loved, as wild bird gay. 

Her frolic childhood pass'd away ; 

And when her stronger mind could feel 

More deep emotions o'er it steal. 

When her pure heart look'd forth for one, 

To rest her pure affections on. 

Then did her trusting spirit find 

An answering chord in Erstein's mind ; 



2i58 MI8.S MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And childhood's laughing' gl;ince and tone 
Gave place to deeper joys alone. 

And only would her cheek grow pale 
To hear some wild romantic tale ; 
And only for imagined woe 
Her sympathetic tear would flow — 
Her youthful heart had ne.cr known 
To sigh for sorrows of its own. 

The past was all one vision bright, 

A storehouse of untold delight, 

To which her mind at will migiit stray ; 

And bear ummmher'd gems away; 

With trusting hope and buoyant glee, 

She gazed into futurity, 

Nor thought that time's advancing wing 

A darker moment e'er could bring. 

The dream now faded from her eyes, — 

She woke to life's realities ! 

And feelings pure, aud strong, and deep, 

Rose from their long, inactive sleep. 

And proudly did the maiden own 

A strength within, till then unknown, 

That wliich, secure in virtue, rose 

To combat with assailing foes. 

Oft would her fearful fancy shri.ik 

Back from the gulf's tremendous brink, 

And oft to reason's glance would rise 

The madness of the sacrifice. 

But o'er her father's aged form 

Tliere hung some dark, portentous storm [ 

A daughter's choice, a daughter's will 

Could ward from him that nameless illl 

And thus the hapless maiden sought 

To quell each wild, rebellious thought. 

And morning came, and soft; and still 
She dawn'd above the distant hill. 
Her wreaths of trembling light to twine 
On the blue waters of the Rhine. 
The mists which on his bosom lay, 
Pass'd like an infant's dream away, 
And left the sun's awakening beam 
To frolic with his mighty stream. 

As though to greet the dawning day. 
The rolling billows curl'd in play ; 
And wild and murmuring tones were borne 
Forth on the bdiny breeze of morn. 
The towering cliffs, so dark and wild. 
On its rude shores in masses piled, 
Touch'd by her gentle influence, smiled; 
And the young flowers the rocks beneath 
Woke at the dawn's reviving breath, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 229 

And on their leaves, so soft and bright, 
Hung- tears of worsliip and delight. 
When all is gay with nature's smile, 
Forgive me if I pause awhile, 
And turn from passion, grief, unrest, 
To muFe upon her tranquil breast. 

Nature I thou ever rollest on, 
With winter's blast and summer's sun, 
Untouch'd by passion's raging storm. 
Rearing on high thy mystic form. 
Springing anew to brighter life 
Amid the world's enduring strife I 
Man lives, and breathes his fleeting day. 
Now sinks 'ncath sorrow's cliilling sway, 
Now basks in pleasure's golden ray, 
Then, like a snow-curl, melts away. 
The piles he rear'd in svy-cUing pride. 
To strive witii time's o'erwhclming tide, 
Proving the weakness of his trust, 
Sunk, like their builders, in the dust. 

Cut while the fabrics, rear'd so high, 

In ruins on thy bosom lie, 

Thou, like some great and mystic page, 

Unfoldest still from age to ago, 

Bearing in every line conccal'd 

The wisdom ages could not yield; 

Thy flowers shall bloom, thy mountains soar. 

Till rolling earth shall be no more; 

Thine ocean waves shall sink and rise 

'I'ill Time himself exliaustcd dies; 

While on thy mighty bosom spread 

The crumbling relics of the dead ! 

How doth this sweet and solemn hour 

Hold o'er the heart its mystic power ! 

Bidding each wilder tumult cease, 

To passion's whirlwind whispering "Peace!" 

Calming the frantic fiiglits of joy. 

And bright'ning sorrow's downcast eye ! 

Oh ! may it shed its influence o'er 

The tortured heart of poor Lenore ! 

She who was wont at earliest dawn 

To cnase the wild bird o'er the lawn. 

While the young flowers tiieir fragrance cast 

As on her fairy footstep past I 

Who now, unheeding bird or flower, 

Steals forth to seek her favourite bower, 

To bid each cherish'd scene farewell, 

And calm lier heart's convulsive swell. 

There, in her childhood's buoyant days, 
Oft had she sung her artless lays; 

10* 



280 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And still, as time roll'd onward, there 
At morn and evening' would repair, 
To rear, in fancy, forms most fair, 
Nor dream that she could find them — air ! 

Once more, within her loved retreat, 

She lean'd upon its flowery scat, 

And inark'd the clustering vines, which sent 

A grateful perfume as they bent; 

Above the eastern hills of blue 

'J'he sun's broad orb more brilliant grew, 

And many a rich and gorgeous ray 

Full on the glistening forests lay ; 

But buried in her lonely bovver, 

She heeded not the passing hour ! 

The vines beside her loudly stirr'd 
But not a sound her ear had heard ; 
A step seem'd hast'ning to the spot, 
But still the maiden inark'd it not — 
And yet more near the intruder came ; 
A well-known voice pronounced her name : 
She started lightly from her seat, 
And bkish'd — 't was Erstein at lier feet ! 

As the bright sun-hues of the west 
Fade fiom the snow-wreath's pallid crest, 
Flitted that blush her pale cheek o'er, 
And left it paler than before ! 
Oh, had you seen his youthful form, 
Adorn'd with every manly charm. 
And known his heart so bold and warm, 
And, like Lenore, that heart had proved, 
You would not marvel that she loved. 

Bred to a fierce and martial life, 
Nurtured for years on fields of strife, 
A spirit fiery, bold, and high. 
Was pictured in his flashing eye, 
And you might think its glance implied 
A soul of haughtiness and pride ; 
But when some gentler feelings stole 
O'er the deep waters of that soul, 
Then fast that quick and burning ray 
Melted in tenderness away, 
And lovelier seem'd its gentle beam, 
Contrasted with that brilliant gleam. 

When first a brave young soldier, come 
From clashing sword nnd pealing drum, 
O'er his own land once more to rove, 
Then first his soul awaked to love ! 
And oh, what floods of pure delight 
Burst in upon his spirit's sight! 
What depths of joy, unknown before, 
Oped in the presence of Lenore ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 231 

Her gentle influence suppress'd 
Each sterner passion in his breast, 
And while controlUng, qucll'd, subdued 
Each feelinor, haughty, wild, or rude. 
From her, unwitting:, he could learn 
Her father's temper dark and stern ; 
And while had glided day by day 
In tranquil happiness away. 
He dared not break the magic spell 
His ardent feelings loved too well. 
By laying thoughts and hopes so bold 
Before a sire so stern and cold, 
Who would have dccm'd it daring pride 
To claim his daughter as a bride ; 
He who had nought to aid his claim 
But love, his honour, and h.is name. 

Thus he was wont, when morning gray 
Cast o'er the liilis its earliest ray. 
Clad in the huntsman's sylvan gear, 
To chase ( 'twas said) the wild-wood deer; 
But ever, when his searching eye 
The towers of Arnheim could descry, 
He left his faithful steed to wait 
Within the thicket's dark retreat, 
And bounded lawn and streamlet o'er 
To snatch one moment with Lenore. 

This, morn with bosom bounding high, 
With springing step and sparkling eye, 
He came to seek her, — but in vain ; 
He pass'd lier favourite haunts again, 
Till winding down a shaded way. 
Which o'er the cliff's dark bosom lay, 
He turn'd the castle's rearmost tower. 
And found this lone, scquester'd bower. 

I may not tune my youthful string 
That scene of hapless love to sing; 
Song cannot well those thoughts reveal 
The heart ne'er f(;It, and cannot feel ; 
Let fancy then her garland weave, 
And fill the trifling void I leave. 

Suffice it that with bearing high. 
And sad composure in her eye. 
And throbbing nerves and bursting lieart. 
Well did that maiden act her part, 
And gave a tale of grief and fear 
To Erstein's wondering, listening ear. 
Nr>t so the youth, — a burning glow 
Was mounting fiercely to his brow. 
And grief and anger in his eye. 
Were struggling for the mastery. 
When Herman's name escaped her tongue, 
Quick to his feet ho wild!}- sprung. 



232 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" In foreign lands that wretch I met ; 
Fiend ! sordid villain ! lives he yet ! 
Oh ! were the scoffer here to meet 
From this strong- hand his well-earn'd fate, 
How few v.'ould be the moments given 
To make his spirit's peace with heaven ! 
" But thou, Lenore ! my steed is nigh, 
And I null save thee ! — Dearest, fly I" 
*' No ! Erstein, no ! I'd rather die I 
My fate is fix'd, my lot is cast, 
Its keenest bitterness is past ; 
Though her heart break, the poor Lenore 
Must think of thee and love no more ! 
" Oh, leave me ! 'tis my prayer, my will; 
Make not my task more dreadful still : 
Thou knovvest more than I would tell, 
Erstein, away ! farewell, farewell !" 
With trembling hand, the cavalier 
Dash'd from his eye the starting tear, 
Bow'd on her hand his burning head, 
And ere her heart could tiirob, had fled. 

END OF CANTO FIRST. 



The notes have paused — the song hath died away. 

And wonldst thou wake the trembling tones again? 
And while the minstrel pours his wandering lay 

Bid thy warm heart re-echo to tije strain ? 
Wouldst hear the sequel of this simple tale, 

And list attentive to the voice of woe ? 
Weep with affection, or with fear turn pale, 

And smile when riseth joy's triumpliant glow ? 
Then will I touch the quivering harp once more, 

While flmcy spreads her rainbosv-tinted wing, 
O'er the dark vale of buried years to soar, 

And back to life their faded shadows bring I 
And thou must gently glance its errors o'er, 

Should the untalor'd bard uncouthly sing. 



CANTO SECOND. 

On, darkly the shadows of evening fell 

On forest and mountain, on streamlet and dell, 

And the clouds, in masses of sombre hue, 

O'er the couch of the morning their draperies threw ; 

And llieir shade fell dark on the Rhine below, 

Whose billows heaved proudly and slowly, as though 

The giant heart of the tempest-god 

Was beating strong 'neath its svvelling flood. 

Its voice came up with a sullen roar 

As the waves dash'd flerce on the rock-bound shore, 

And the wild-bird scream'd as he skimm'd them o'er, 

While the vessel which flew o'er its surfa'^e that day. 

With her white wings furl'd on its dark !>osom h}', 



POETICAL REMAINS. 233 

Just kissing the foam with her bending side, 
As if owning the power of the lordly tuie. 
The morning rose meekly, and softly, and fair, 
A j^^ evening the frown of the storm-aod was there 
And gladness and beauty fled back from his eye, 
Like the smile from the spirit when sorrows draw nicrh. 
Where the sunbeams had wreathed round the mountmn s tall crest 
JNow floated a mantle of darkness and mist, 
And the wing of the tempest did fearfully fall 

er the arches and towers of that time-honour'd hall. 
The portal was shut, and the drawbrid-^e was raided 
And no gleam of a torch from the banquet-hall blazed ; 
Hnt with laces of gloom, and steps measured and slow, 

1 he warders were pacing the gateway below, 
Now sile^itly marking the clouds overhead. 
Now whispering in accents of sorrow and dread. 
The hall was deserted ; the court-yard alone 
Heard an echoing tread on its pavement of stone, 
And parties of menials were gathering there 
With faces of mystery, faces of care. 

Not a voice was heard but in murmurings low. 
Not a torch was seen with its cheerful glow. 
Save where a ray was streaming o'er 
The ancient chapel's massive door. 
And wandering with its glimmer faint 
O'er sculptured cherubim and saint. 
'T was an ancient pile, and the creeping vine 
Had begun o'er its mouldering arches to twine, 
And the long bright grass unmark'd had grown 
On the broken pavement of crumbling stone ; 
And the rude remains of a ruder day, 
Shatter'd and torn 'neath its vaulted roof lay. 

'T was a solemn scene, when the ancient pile 
Was glittering bright in the morning smile. 

And bold in nerve and in heart was he, 
Who would dare to walk in its haunted aisle ! 

For oh, it was fearful there to be 

When the night was falling gloomily ; 
When the tempest shriek'd round its massive wall, 
And darkness enrobed it like a pall. 
Why th-en doth light unwonted shine 
From the gilded lamps on the ruin'd shrine? 
Aiid why o'er the rest of the baron's hall 
Is it darkness and silence and dreariness all ? 
And why with that anxious and sorrowful mien, 
Do the menials gaze on the desolate scene ? 

Alas ! those chapel walls this night 

Must witness a dark, unholy rite. 

And the gale, which shrieks in its fitful stan, 

Must sing the wail of a broken heart ! - 

And on that sacred altar, where 

So soft the suppliant breathed his prayer, 

A young and ardent soul must lay 

A deeper sacrifice to-day — 

Upon its marble bosom fling 

The blushing flowers of lite's warm spring, 



234 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And all the radiant garlands wove 
By buoyant hope and guileless love. 

Alas, that man's unhallow'd hand 
The spirit's sacred veil should rend, 
And lor his own dark purpose tear 
The warm and glowing treasures there , 
Then as in mockery dare to twine, 
Upon his Maker's holy shrine, 
Those pure and fond affections, given 
To make this weary earth a heaven. 

When last those crumbling walls had heard 

Or muffled tread or whisper' d word, 

A funeral wail had fiU'd the pile, 

A train of mourners fiU'd the aisle, 

And there in solemn pomp interr'd 

A distant kinsman of their lord. 

Thus still upon the shrouded wall 
Hung the black draperies, hke a pall. 
In long unnioving masses, save 
When the chill wind its folds would wave, 
And swelling slow the dismal screen 
Betray the shatter'd stones between. 

Talltorches bnrn'd the shrine before, 
Casting their rays the chapel o'er. 
And shedding pale and sickly hght 
Upon the scowling brow of night! 
While, from each lofty arch, the eye 
Could mark the thick clouds passing by, 
In blackening masses, wildly driven 
Athwart the frowning face of heaven. 

The vaulted ceiling echoed round 

Each clanking tread, or mutter'd sound. 

And the blast which crept o'er the pavements bare, 

And waved the torches' flickering glare, 

Wail'd in a sad and thrilling tone, 

Like a departed spirit's moan. 

Beside the altar stood its priest, 
His wan hands folded on his breast. 
The quivering torchlight o'er him playing. 
His gray locks round his forehead straying. 
And his eye wandering here and there. 
With anxious and unsettled air ; 
And ever, as its glance would fall 
On Herman's form, so grim and tall. 
He mutter'd, turn'd in shuddering haste, 
And sign'd the cross upon his breast. 

Well might the priest instinctive turn, 
From gazing on a face so stern ; 
For oh, it told of storms within, 
The strife of passion, pride, and sin ; 
More fearful, more appalling far, 
Than the fierce tempest's raging war. 

With hurried steps he paced awhile 
The grass-grown pavements of the aisle, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 235 

And on the open portal nigh 
His keen glance fell impatiently, 
Till his dark brow yet darker lower'd, 
And his hand fiercely grasp' d his sword. 

" If he should dare deceive me ! then 
He'll find the lion in his den!" 
Scarce were the startUng accents o'er, 
When darkening shadows fill'd the door ; — 
It was the baron and Lenore. 

A large dark mantle, closely drawn, 
Conceal' d the maiden's fragile form ; 
But her measured step was firmer far 
Than the trembling tread of her aged sire, 
And she came with a calm and unfaltering air 
To offer up all that was dear to her there. 

And when she stood the shrine beside, 
A sad and self-devoted bride, 
She clasp'd her hands, and raised on high 
The thrilling glance of her tearless eye, 
And the stern bridegroom shrunk below 
That look of fix'd and speechless woe. 

But the keen pang pass'd quickly o'er, 
And left tier tranquil as before : 
Her pallid fingers gently press'd 
The clasping jewel on her breast, 
And the dark mantle falling back, 
Reveal'd her bridal robe of black ! 
The massive folds hung drooping there 
Around her form, so slight and fair, 
As the sad cypress in its gloom 
O'er the white marble of the tomb. 

In imconfincd and native grace 

Her long dark tresses veil'd her face. 

Contrasting with the cheek and brow 

So pallid and so deathlike now, 

And casting round her. as they stray'd, 

A waving and a dreamlike shade. 

Thus stood she, motionless and still, • 

Like some pale form of Grecian skill. 

Placed by the matchless sculptor there, 

A breathing image of despair. 

One torturing, agonizing day 
Had quell'd the heart so light and gay, 
And given her mien a bearing high 
Of calm and thoughtful dignity. 

The baron started as his eye 

Fell on her sombre drapery : 

" Lenore," he whisper'd, "why to-day 

Assume such ominous array ? 

Couldst thou not find a bridal dress 

More fitting such a scene as this ?" 



836 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

She bent her dark and earnest gaze 
A rnoment on her father's face, 
As if her senses could not hear 
The words which fell upon her ear, 
Then said, with quick, convulsive start, 
" And wouldst thou gild a bleeding heart ? 
A broken spirit wouldst thou fold 
In sparkhng robes of tinseli'd gold ? 
'T were niockery ! this is fittest guise 
To deck a living sacrifice." 

The baron turn'd in sudden thought 
To Herman's towering form, and sought 
To melt that heart, more hard than steel, 
By one long look of mute appeal, 
As half expecting to receive 
Some blessed signal of reprieve ; 
But his knit brow and flushing eye 
Reveal'd his dark and stern reply, 
And the priest oped the sacred book 
With pale and hesitating look. 
The thunder's deep and muttering tone 
Broke on the listening ear alone ; 
He paused, bent low his moisten'd brow, 
And read with quivering voice and slovv. 
While yet the feeble accents hung 
Unfinish'd on his faltering tongue ; 
••^ Through the tall arches flashing came * 
A broad and livid sheet of flame, 
Playing with fearful radiance o'er 
The upraised features of Lenore, 
The shrinking form of her trembling sire, 
The bridegroom's face of scowling ire. 
And the folded hands, and heaving breast, 
And prophet-like mien of the aged priest ! 

'T was a breathless pause, — but a moment more. 
And that fierce, unnatural beam was o'er. 
And a stunning crash, as if earth were driven 
On thundering vvheels to the gates of heaven, 
Burst, peal'd, and mutter'd. long and deep. 
Then sinking, growl'd itself to sleep. 
And all was still ; — the priest first broke 
•■'■'^ Th' oppressive silence as he spoke : 

" Both heaven and earth their powers unite 
Against this dark, unhallow'd rite ! 
A voice without, a voice within, 
Hath told me that the deed v.-ere sin I 
Though death and danger bar my way, 
I will not — dare not disobey!'' 

A cloud more dark than the tempest now 
Was gathering sternly on Herman's brow : 
" Priest ! madman ! hypocrite ! proceed ! 
Or blows shall mend thy coward creed !" 
"For God's sake, peace !" the baron cried, 
And closer drew to Herman's side. 
One moment, peace ! for hark ! I hear 
Iioud cries come nearer and more near!" 



PCETICAL REMAINS. 237 

" Fool '." 't is the wailing of the blast, 
Which svveepa these echoing ruins past ! 
I brook no dailying ! Deal thou fair, 
Or "oy yon heaven, old man, I swear. 
Thou shalt have reason to beware 1" 
Still did the cowering baron stand. 
With fixed eye and upraised hand, 
As one who bends an earnest ear 
Some faint and distant sound to hear. 

And while he hsten'd, by degrees 

That sound came swelling on the breeze. 

Now low and hoarse, now shrill and loud-, 

Like mingled voices of a crowd ; 

And as more near the tones were heard, 

Did Herman fiercely grasp his sword. 

As if preparing to chastise 

Whate'er should bar his destined prize ! 

And louder still the clamour rose, 

Like mingled sounds of shouts and blows, 

And on that tide of tumuh came 

The baron's and the bridegroom's name. 

One moment struck with mute surprise, 
Each raised to each his wondering eyes ; 
But Herman, roused to action first. 
Forth from the group infuriate burst ; 
When, ere the baron reach'd his side, 
The low-brow' d portal open'd wide, 
And a menial, pale with breathless haste, 
Wounded and bleeding, forward press'd : 
Fly to the rescue, baron, fly ! 
Ere all thy faithful followers die ! 
For armed men the moat have pass'd, 
Have gaiu'd the inner court at last. 
And fight and clamour for thy guest !" 

A wild and bitter laughter rung 
From Herman's lips ere forth he sprung. 
" And so my comrades come to 'race 
Their worthy leader's lurking-place? 
'T is well ! not yet my race is run. 
And dearly shall my hie be won !" 

The baron and his guest have gone ; 
The bride and priest arc here alnne I 
How doih that fragile plant sustam 
Its courage in this hour of paiii ? 
Perple.x'd, bevvilder'd, ^nd amazed. 
Upon the shifing scene she gazed, 
And only felt, with quid: delight. 
That he whose presence seem'd a bhght 
To chill each heart whh shuddering fear, 
'Fhat he no more was fingering near. 

She breathed one deep and thrilling groan, 
And sank upon the shatter'd stone ! 
She had nor power nor will to rise, 
But wiih clasn'd hands, and straining eyes 
20 



238 MISS MARUARET DAVIDSON. 

Fix'd on the portal, did she wait 
The coming crisis of her fate. 

The wind rush'd in from the open'd door, 
And the red torch hght was no more, 
And the rude pile was dark, save whore 
The hglatning spread its ghastly glare, 
Or from the crowded court-yard came 
Some broad and glancing stream of llama. 

The wounded man's expiring groan 
Seem'd echoed from the root ot stone ; 
And louder yet the piercmg dm 
Burst on the listening pair withm. 
The stone-paved court alternate rang 
With clashing steel, and shout, and clang; 
And waving wildly to and fro, 
The torches spread their hery glow. 
Casting o'er every point ot sight 
A glaring and unearthly light ; 
While, as the fearful &houts did rise 
In blended tumult to the skies. 
The spirit of the midnight storm 
Rear'd on the clouds his black ning form, 
And with each cry which swell d the gale 
Mingled his wild and shrieking wail. 
Now closer drew the assailing band, 
With sword to sword, and hand to hand, 
And fiercely toward the chapel pressed, 
Where stood the baron and his guest. 
Herman, with fix'd and cautiouseye 
Beheld his furious foes draw nigh, 
And vow'd in this unequal strife 
Not he alone should part with hie. 

Nearer they came, with shout and cry, 
" Down with the traitor ! caitifi, die 1 
\nd if a moment more had sped, 
The wretch had number'd with the dead ; 
When, with a voice deep-toned and loud, 
A tall form issued from the crowd, 
Press'd firmly through the rushmg tide. 
And springing close to Herman s side. 
In calm commanding accents cried : 

"And are ye men ? Bear back, I say i 
Ye throng like tigers on their prey ! 
Bear back a space, and he or I 
In fair and equal fight shall die 1 

As waves retire with sullen roar. 
From meeting with the rock-bound shore. 
The crowd bore back with mutterings low, 
In waving columns, long and slow, 
And stood, with eager gaze, to wait 
The youthful champion's com.ing late. 

The stranger raised his sword, when nigh 
There burst a low and tb.riUing cry ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 239 

He turn'd — a wretch unseen before, 
Slill linger'd by the chapel door, 
And raised in air his gleaming blade 
Above tlie baron's aged head. 
One spring — one stroke — with piercing yell, 
And long deep groan the miscreant fell ; 
And the young warrior stood before 
His dark-brow' d combatant once more I 

Herman, with eager look, intent 
Upon his foe his keen eye bent ; 
And while he thus his form survey'd, 
His quivering lip his rage betrayed ; 
Then forth in furious haste he sprang, 
Till the young stranger's armour rang 
With his quick strokes' incessant clang. 

Regardless to preserve his own, 
He sought the stranger's life alone, 
With panting breast and flashing eye, 
And all a madman's energy; 
While calm and hrm his foe repaid 
Each stroke with true unerring blade. 

A few, but fearful moments pass'd, 
Till blind with headlong rage at last, 
Herman, with desperate fierceness, press'd, 
And aim'd a quick blow at his breast ; 
The youth beheld, sprang lightly round, 
Dash'd the rais'd weapon to the ground. 
And while ths? fragments scatter'd wide, 
He sheathed his sword in Herman's side ! 
'I'hen bending o'er his fallen foe, 
Whisper'd in accents stern and low, 
" Herman ! thy miscreant life 1 spare ! 
But should we meet again — beware !" 
Then gliding through the low-arch'd door 
His manly form was seen no more ! 

With straining eye and changeless mien 
Lenore had marked this fearful scene, 
Till her chill'd heart seem'd palsied there 
AVith terror bordering on de&pair. 
But when the gallant stranger came, 
A something whisper'd Erstein's name, 
And when beneath the dubious light 
She saw him concjueror in the light. 
Her heart seem'd Inirsring with delight. 
Hope, vvith its trembling radiance, stole 
O'er th-e dark de?ert of her soul— 
Her head droop'd lightly on her breast. 
As when an infant sinks to rest ; 
Her heart gave one convulsive thrill, 
Leap'd — flutter'd wildly — and was still 
The courage grief could not destroy 
Bovv'd to intensity of joy. 
The priest, unhcodinff all beside. 
Bent sadly o'er tlie fainting bride,. 



810 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

With mystic sign and mutter'd prayer, 

And all an anxious father's care ; 

But as he knelt, absorb'd the while, 

A quick step echoed through the aisle — 

A burst of joy assailed his ear ; 

He turn'd — the stranger youth was near! 

A moment more — his stalwart arm 
Had raised the maiden's drooping form, 
And turning swift, his eagle eye 
Roam'd o'er the walls inquiringly. 
The priest observed his doubtful air, 
And clearly read liis meaning there : 
Trembling, he raised the massive pall 
Which hung beside the crumbling wall, 
And oped a secret door that led 
Within a thicket's tangled shade. 

The youth bow'd low his plumed head, 
And 'neath the ruin'd portal fled ! 
The priest conceal'd itas before. 
And turning, past the draperies o'er, 

But breathed a low and smother'd cry. 
As, fix'd upon that secret door. 

His own met Herman's baleful eye. 

It burn'd with hatred's living flame, 

And rage convulsed his giant frame, 

A curse hung quivering on his tongue ; 

Each nerve to dark revenge was strung ; 

And the full arteries of his brow. 

Were swelled like livid serpents now. 

The boiling blood with sudden start 

Had gather'd fiercely at his heart, 

And lent his cheeks and lips a hue 

Of ghastly and unearthly' blue. 

But quick the coward tide return'd, 

And through his veins like wildfire burn'd 

And o'er his features crept the while, 

Their sneering and revengeful smile — 

When in that crowded court he fell 

Beneath that foe he knew too well. 

He sought to find a safe retreat 

From clashing swords and trampling feet — 

And while he lean'd, whh whirling brain, 

The po-tal's sculptured arch beside, 
Saw with a rage surmounting pain. 

The flight of Erstein and his bride. 

And where hath he fled with his lovely one, say 7 
And where are they wending their perilous way ? 
The lover hath mounted his faithful steed. 
He is bounding away with the lightning speed ! 
On-e arm is supporting the rescued bride. 
One hand is at freedom his bridle to guide. 
And his spurs are dash'd in the charger's side. 

Beneath them the turf, and above them the sky, 
Away and away on their palhwny th(n' flv ' 



POETICAL REMAINS. 241 

The sound of the tumult grew fainter and low, 
And faded in distance the torches' red glow, 
And in silence unbroken the fugitive sped, 
Save when the low thunder was growling overhead, 
Or the tempest was waihng, now shrill, now deep, 
As it crept in the arms of the morning to sleep. 

While the black ( louds were rolling in masses away, 

O'er the hills of the east rose a faint streak of gray; 

And as onward they flew, on the dim air was borne 

The soft cooling breath of a bright summer's morn ! 

Their speed as they bounded the forest path o'er 

Recall'd the faint throb to the heart of Lenore, 

But her senses bcwiider'd long laboured in vain 

To dispel the wild fancies which thronged on her brainy 

And when she awoke to the real at last. 

Oh what mingled emotions were stirr'd in her breas:*. 

Till her heart oversowing found soothing relief 

In te^TS of united thanksgiving and grief I 

She remembcr'd the scene in the old ruin'd aisle, 

And silently pray'd ibr the victor the while. 

Then she thought of her sire, and she shr nk frora hi* s^ 

And '■ My father ! my father!" she bit'erly cried. 

" Fear not for your father ! yon larious band 

Sougat nothing but ha; y his gold at his hand ! 

It was Herman they sought, and tiiey long'd for the blood 

Of that traitor ahke to the vile and the go'^d !" 

" And whither art bearing me, Erstein, and why ? 
And where shall Lenore lor a retdng-place fly ?" 
" We are hasting away to my rude mountain tower ! 
'T is a rugged retreat ior so iragile a flower ; 
But my sister shall cherish the blossom with care 
Till it blooms again, brighter and sweeter than e'er." 
'• And how didst thou come in that moment of gloom, 
To snatch me away from my terrible doom ?" 

" Lenore, my beloved ! thou remembcrest the hour 
When I parted from thee in the myrtle-v.reath'd bower ; 
That hour which was fated awhile to destroy 
Each hope of the future, each vision of joy; 
I mounted my charger, I knew not how, 

And I rode like a madman, I knew not where ; 
For my brain was hot with a fiery glow, 

And my heart vv'as chill'd with a cold despair ; 
I abandoned the reins to my laithful steed. 
And we bounded away with a maniac speed. 
Till exhausted and worn with exertion we stood 
On the barren skirts of a lonely wood ; 
'Twas deep immersed in a mountain deli. 

On the rocky banks of a brawling stream. 
Which o'er a dark precipice rapidly fell, 

V/ith dashing and foaming, and murmur and gleam, 
I threw myself down by a rock-cover'd cave. 
And silently bent o'er the breast of the wave. 
And more caltn in my veins did the life-current flow, 
"While the spray dashed cool on my iin'erish brow 
.21 ^ 



24? MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Of Herman i thought, and my pulses beat higher, 
And my bosom throbb'd wild with the " tempest of ire !" 
But then o'er my fancy that loved iinacre crept, 
And forgive me, Lenore, if in anguisl^I wept ! 
While musing thus sadly, I started to hear 
The sound ot rude voices assailing my ear. 
I turn'd, — from the cavern beside me they came, — 
And the speaker named Herman's detestable name ! 
I listen'd— but, dearest, so stainless thou art. 
In each word of thy lips, and each thought of thy heart 
That could I repeat, I should tell thee in vain 
Ot a language so loose, so impure and profane ! 
Then listen, Lenore, as I briefly shall tell 
'rhe meaning Igain'd from their words as thev fell. 
They were robbers — a fearful and ruffian band, 
Most sordid of heart, and most bloody of hand, 
And Herman had been, for full many a year. 
Their chief in each deed of rebellion and Year ! 
Yes ! he whose presumption hath claim'd thee as bride 
To that lawless and desperate band was allied ; 
Meet comrades for one whose degenerate mind 
Is stain'd with each crime which can blacken mankind. 
1'hus a stranger to mercy, a stranger to fear, 
He had rush'tl on, uncheck'd in his reckless career. 
Till, unheeding the pledge which at entrance he gave, 
In secret he fled from the robbers' wild cave, 
Bearing with him away their iniquitous spoil. 
The fruits they had reap'd from unhallowed toil ' 
Oh long did they labour, but labour'd in vain, 
Some trace of their villanous chieftain to gain. 
Till a comrade return'd with the tidings at last, 
That the Baron of Arnheim received him as guest, 
And this eve was to join his perfidious hand 
To tlie fairest flower of his native land. 
Then they vow'd revenge, and they fearfully swore 
That long ere the shadows of midnight v.-cre o'er, 
''I'hey would give to their leader, false Herman, the meed 
He had won by the coward and traitorous deed ' 
They resolved to assemble at eventide there, 
And in arms to the Castle of Arnheim repair, 
To recover the gold they had lost, and assuage. 
In the blood of their chieftain, their hatred and rage. 
Thus said they, Lenore ; and now eager I heard 
Each ruffian voice, and each half-suppress'd word ; 
For while o'er my senses their dark import stole, 
A light broke in on my desperate soul. 
And methought I discovered a path to guide 
My steps once more to my dear one's side. 
I could join their band at the castle gate ; 
I could rescue thee from thy dreadful fate. 
And while they were in fury revenging their wrong. 

And searching for gold 'neath each time-worn wall, 
I could plunge unseen 'mid the motley throng, 

And bear away that which was dearer than all ! 
Oh, blest be our Lady ! who guided me well, 

And supported thy soul on this terrible night ! 
But Lenore ! my beloved ! thy cheek is too pale. 

And the tear steals adown it — oh sav, was I right ?" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 243 

She spoke no v/ord, but he read her reply 

In the timid glance of her downcast eye, 

And the blush which sprung to her varying cheek, 

In token of tiioughts which she dared not speak ! 

He saw the glance, and he felt its charm, 

And he folded the mantle more close round her form, 

And silently spurring his charger again, 

They bounded away over forest and plain. 

And softly and meekly the morning light 

Stole up from tlie arms of that storm-toss'd night, 

And faintly trembled its dawning beam 

On each sparkling valley and purling stream. 

And d-anced on the leaves of the forest trees. 

As they slowly waved in the sighing breeze, 

And with dripping branches l>ended low, 

As if weeping the fate of each lallen bough. 

" Lenore!" said Erstein, " Lenore, behold. 

How each cloud from the glance of the morning hath roU'd ; 

How the storm of the midnight has glided away, 

And no traces are Icit of its passage to-day, 

Save a pensive hue, which is stealing o'er. 

And making all nature more fair than before. 

" The whispering gale that is floating past. 

Is all that remains of the howling blast, 

And the sparkling waves of yon tiny river 

Rush onward more swiftly and gaily than ever ; 

While the emerald turf on the graceful hill 

Outrivals in splendour the dew-dripping rill, 

And the trees round its base with their broad arms cling, 

Like the diamond crown of a giant king. 

'Tis a beautiful type of our fate, Lenore, 

For our storm of misfortune has glided o'er. 

And the joyous morning of hope and love 

Is dawning our radiant pathway above ; 

And life shall How on with its dancing stream. 

With murmur and sparkle, with music and gleam, 

And the glittering dew-drops alone shall last, 

To remind oar souls of the storms that have past." 

A sunbeam of gladness, a smile from the soul, 

O'er the face of Lenore insensibly stole ; 

They were slowly ascending a verdant hill, 

At whose base there rippled a murmuring rill. 

And she gazed on the vale they had left, till her sight 

Seem'd melting in tears of exquisite delight. 

But she suddenly utter'd a smother'd cry, 

As a figure advancing arrested her eye ; 

'Twas a horseman, who spurr'd on his foaming steed 

With a desperate madman's fiery speed, 

While far beyond, on the level green, 

A waving line was distinctly seen. 

Scarce had the shriek escaped her tongue, 
Ere to his feet young Erstein sprung. 
And led the wearied steed, which bore 
The fragile form of poor Lenore, 
Where a dark thicket rose in pride 
The leaping, brawling stream beside. 



244 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" 'T is Herman ! and the hour is come 
To seal or his or Erstein's doom ! 
If victor, well! but if I die,^^ 
Thine only resource is to fly." 

He said, and press'd her hand the while 
With fervent gra?p and cheering smile : 
Then ere hadlled that earnest tone, 
Tlie trembling maiden was alone. 

Meanwhile, with fierce and maniac haste, 
The furious Herman forward press'd, 
Clear'd the small stream with sudden bound, 
And leap'd impetuous to the ground. 
Oh, 'twas a dark and fearful sight ! 
His writhing face was ghastly white ; 
His horseman's cloak was deeply dyed 
With the red life-blood from his side ; 
His step was hurried and untrue ; 
His scowling brow was bathed in dew, 
And when he pass'd his fingers o'er, 
They left its surface stain'd with gore. 

Still did his rigid features wear 
Their darkly biting, withering sneer, 
And in his eye a fiendish glare 
Revenge and hate had kindled there. 
He v.-av'd his glancing sword on high. 
And cried, " Defend thy life, or die !" 
" I fi^ht not," Erstein answered slow, 
" A fi-antic or a bleeding foe !" 

A demon's rage fill'd Herman's eye, 
Which flash'd around him fearfully. 
" Then in thy coward folly die !" 
Thus did he yell, and with the word 
Plunged at his breast his ponderous sword. 
The youth, who mark'd each look with care, 
Turn'd — and the weapon smote the air ; 
Then, ere a second stroke was made. 
Swift as the wind unsheath'd his blade ; 
And springing forih, with gesture fight, 
Closed firmly in the desperate fight. 
How did those sounds of doubt and fear 
Ring on the maiden's listening ear ! 
How did her veins convulsive swell, 
As, fast and wild, the stern blows fell ! 
But passion's rage must yield at length 
To calmer reason's vigorous strength, 
And Erstein's steel again was dew'd 
With the fierce Herman's gushing blood. 

Breathing one quick and startling yell, 
Upon the trampled sward he fell, 
And the dark hfc-slrcam gurgling fast, 
Blent with the dew-drops on his breast, 
And, as the current swifter sped. 
Tinged the light sparkling stream with red t 
His clench'd han.ds held, with rigid clasp, 
The turf and flowers within their grasp. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 245 

And the cold, clammy, deathlike devs ^ 

In large drops gather' d on his brow. 

Then a dark shade of fell despair 

Chased from its glance its frenzied glare. 

And yielded to his upraised eye 

A look of helpless agony ; 

It roU'd around from place to place, 

And rested last on Erstein's face ; 

Then shrank from the moment's encounter again 

With a mingled thrill of remorse and pain ; 

Then he strove to speak, but the accents hung 

Unform'd on his quivering, palsied tongue. 

Erstein the wounded suflerer gave 
A cooling draught from the crystal wave. 
And raising his form on the rivulet's brink. 
Oh long and deeply did he drink, 
Then, as o'ercome with torturing pain, 
Sank on the crimson'd turf again. 

Convulsions o'er his features past, 

And, with a fearfu'. strength, at last 

He started — clench'd his blood-stain'd vest, 

And groan' d, " This mountain on my breast'" 

Ersteu) bent o'er him — " Herman ! now 

We stand no longer foe to foe ; 

Tell me, if to one earthly thing 

Thy parting spirit still doth cling ; 

One deed, which, ere thy race was run. 

Thou wouldst have purposed to have done ; 

One word of penitence lo send 

An injured or deluded friend ; 

And here I pledge my promise free. 

That act shall be performed for thee 1 

Aught that may cast a softening ray 

Around thv spirit's fearful way. 

Or soothe that dark and drear abode 

Unbrighten'd by the smiles of Godl" 

" Of God ! Who spoke of God ?— I own 
'No God but reckless chance alone ; 
No hell more rife with pain and fear 
Than that which burns and tortures here ! 
Though I could sink to black despair, 
If I met not his spirit there ! 
" Away, away ! each look, each word 
Pierces mv bosom like a sword '. 
'T is ihou whom I have injured, thou 
Whose arm, injustice, laid me low! 
Nay, leave me not, but come more near. 
For my breath fails me — bend thine ear ! 
And ere from life for ever freed. 
My soul shall boast one blameless deed I 
Child of a rich and ancient line, ^^ 
Arnheim, its titles, lands, are thine ! 
" Thou ravest !"— " List ! if there be time 
Thine ears shall drink my tale of crime !— 
I seem'd thy father's friend, and he 
Believed me all fidelity ; 



240 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

He perished in a foreign land, 
And, Erstein, by this blood-stain'd hand ? 
Ay, shudder ! — mark me v.'ell, and trace 
The murderer's impress on my face ! 
Yes ! 'neath a friend's disguise, there stole 
A venom'd serpent to his soul! 
In youth he dared to taunt me — I 
Vow'd for the insult he should die ! 
" It's very memory pass'd from him ; 
And when in after years I came, 
Conceal'd by friendship's mask and name. 
He took me to his bosom, while 
Revenge was lurking 'neath my smile. 
He died ! — start not, but bend thine ear, 
For I must speak and thou shalt hear! 
Ay, though it rends my blacken'd heart, 
And tears each gaping wound apart I 
" He died! — I sought, with keenest hate, 
The proofs of this thy fair estate ; 
I kept the parchments, that I still 
Might guide thy fortunes at my will. 
I hated — for thy features bore 
The smile, the glance thy father's wore. 
" Avert that look ! the memory brings 
A thousand thousand scorpion stings ! 
Ay, ay ! 'tis right, 'tis meet thy steel 
This last and deadliest blow should deal ! 
'Tis right thy gratefid hand should send 
The death-blow to thy father's friend! 
" But I must on ! — I left that shore — 
I sought my native land once more: 
I join'd the robbers' desperate band ; 
I found the baron on thy land ; 
'Twas then I saw, I loved, Lenore ! — 
Oh heavens ! and must I tell thee more ? — 
I play'd the baron false, and he, 
The fool ! the idiot : trusted me ! 
" Here, on my cold and labouring breast- 
Raise me — here, here the parchments rest! 
But my chill'd limbs grow stiff — the sand 
Of life is running fast — the hand 
Of death is plunging deep his icy dart — 
His grasp is cold — cold — cold upon my heart !* 
The youth, with fix'd and wondering eyes, 
Bent o'er his form in mute surprise ; 
When loud, derisive laughter near, 
Burst in discordance on his ear. 
He rose, and saw before him stand 
The dying Herman's ruffian band. 
Returning from their midnight broil, 
And laden with its varied spoil, 
To their wild cave they led in haste 
The aged baron and the priest. 
But when in distance they beheld 
Their leader's flight, so fierce and wild, 
They turn'd, pursued, and came to see 
His last, expiring agony; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 247 

And now, with lauwh of scornful hate, 

Like fiends, they triumph'd in his fate. 

Those tones, with direst vengeance rife, 

Recall' d their comrade's flickering hfe. 

With them unnumber'd memories came — 

Again he raised his bleeding frame, 

Gazed wildly on the furious band, 

And shook his clench' d and stiffening hand. 

His cheek buru'd with a livid glow, 

A black scowl gat her' d on his brow, 

A fierce revenge his visage fired — 

He groan'd, fell backward, and expired. 

Silence her breathless mantle threw 

A moment o'er that lawless crew, 

And awe one instant gain'd the place 

Of triumph on each swarthy face. 

But as the sun-ray glances past 

The rugged clitT's unbending crest, 

So did that faint beam disappear, 

Lost in a dark demoniac sneer. 

The baron and the priest alone 

With trembhng heard that dying groan, 

And mark'd whh awe-struck pitying gaze, 

His stiffen'd form and ghastly face. 

Erstein first broke the silence dread, 
And to the outlaw'd chieftain said : 
" Thou seekest spoil ! dost thou behold 
This jewell'd cross, this purse of gold? 
These will I gladly give, to gain 
Two aged captives of thy train. 
High ransom take, and yield to me 
The priest's and baron's liberty." 

*' Yon priest I had design'd to save 

The contrite sinners in our cave. 

Yon miser lord, to gather in 

The gold our midnight frays shall win ! 

This had I purposed, but in truth 

Thy sword hath served us well, brave youth. 

By sending to the fiend, who gave, 

The spirit of that scowHng knave. 

Bestow on us that glittering store, 

And swear to seek our spoil no more, 

Then will we freely yield to thee 

The aged captives' liberty." 

The pledge was given — the band releasea 
The aged baron and the priest. 
And sweeping round a thicket nigh. 
Their dark forms vanish'd to the eye. 
With heaving breast and clouded brow 
The baron wander'd to and fro. 
And wrung his hands with gestures wild. 
And wept and cried, " my child ! My child !' 

Swiftly the youthful Erstein fled 
To the dark wood's embowering shade. 
And soon as swift return'd to lead 
The fair Lenorc's wearied steed. 



*«^"i» ?'1^J5 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

With joyful cry ar.d agiJ'5 bound, 
The maiden sprarc^^ upon the ground, 
And clasp'd her lather's neck around. 

And o c» and o'er again he press'd 

The rescued maiden to his breast, 

And gazed upon her features bright 

With frantic transports of delighT. 

" My child ! my love ! my own Lenore ! 

Come to thy father's heart once more, 

Nor fear that thou again shalt be 

A hving sacrifice for me ! 

But who preserved thee ? where didst thou 

Find refuge on that night, and how?" 

Her cheek with crimson blushes warm, 
She turn'd her eye on Erstein's form. 
" And by what title shall I bless ?" — 
" Erstein !"— He groan' d— "Alas ! alas ! 
It is the very name, 't is he 
Whom I have heap'd with injury! 
A voice, too long a slighted guest, 
Once more is whispering in my breast ! 
And I will listen — will obey ; 
How shall I all these wrongs repay ?" 

The youth's dark eye beam'd purest fire, 

And l)is quick pulses bounded higher. 

Oh let me, let me call thee sire !'^ 

The baron bent his wondering gaze 

Upon the speakej-'s beaming face; 

The youth was at his feet— his brow 

Vv^as burning with a crimson glow, 

His lips were parted, and his cheek 

P'lush'd with the thoughts he could not speak, 

And his dark eye was raised above, 

With mingled glance of hope and love. 

He turn'd to Lenor-e, and her downcast ej'e, 
Her trembling frame, her heaving sigh, 
Her cheek, now flush'd, now deadly'pale, 
In silence told the maiden's tale ! 

" My children De happy ! henceforth to your sire 
Shall your peace be his highest, his noblest desire ; 
He shall see you enjoy, with a rapture tenfold, 
Those affections he well nigh haa barter'd for gold ! 
And sorrow's dark pinion ohall shadow no more 
The loves of br-^ /e Erstein and fair Lenore." 
1838. 



THE END. 



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HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. |§| 

DEC 88 

N. MANCHESTER, 
"^^i^ INDIANA 46962 








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